100 Ghost Stories
by author-self-insert
Summary: A detective who always follows the rules isn't sure what to do with his star-witness, an eccentric woman with a penchant for meddling. Is she really as innocent as she claims? Or is there a darker force at work? Mystery, not horror or supernatural. HEA. AH. Bella/Edward are the only Twilight characters. EPOV of Book of Monsters.
1. Chapter 1

Note: The Bella and Edward in this story aren't the Bella and Edward in _Twilight_ , which is a series of books with which the flaxen-haired Bella of _100 Ghost Stories_ is obsessed. (And as you will see, the coincidence regarding the names throws Bella for a bit of a loop when she meets a real world Edward in the first chapter below.)

If _Book of Monsters_ wasn't to your liking, this version (EPOV) may be more to your tastes. If you read _Book of Monsters_ , this extended EPOV may be too repetitive for your liking; you may prefer the abbreviated _Book of Monsters EPOV._

 **Disclaimer: Characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. Plot belongs to me.**

One-Hundred Ghost Stories ( _hyaku monogatari_ ) – game popular in seventeenth century Japan; players would gather after dark and light one-hundred candles set in lamps covered in blue paper, then proceed to tell ghost stories; after each story, one of the candles would be put out, until the players were surrounded by utter darkness; the player who lost his nerve and fled was the loser

 _"In the stillness_

 _After the storm—flies."_ Santōka Taneda 232 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 1

The body was left in an alley behind a Metro station. It was the kind of place you'd want to murder a person. It struck just the right balance between privacy and venality. Plus, the streetlight was broken.

So it was pretty damn annoying that some woman had just stumbled over the body.

People shouldn't be walking down dark alleys in the middle of the night, let alone stray females all on their own. It just wasn't smart.

"She the one?" I asked, eyeing the woman huddling a few yards away under a streetlight. She had a nervous look on her face, her arms were tucked around her frame defensively, all angles and elbows. She looked like she wanted to take a jab at someone. The defensiveness clashed with the farm-girl face. All youth and innocence.

"That's her," Ryan confirmed, handing me the victim's wallet.

"What's she doing back here?" Maybe Ryan had already gotten her story.

"Looking for trouble."

I snorted. The blonde with the farm-girl looks didn't exactly look like she was made for trouble, but it took all kinds.

Ignoring her for the moment, I went through the victim's wallet.

Driver's license—Mitsuhiro Murota—a couple of credit cards, and fifty-two dollars in cash.

"There's already a patrol car at the guy's place," Ryan explained.

"They go inside?"

"Looked quiet. So they're waiting for you."

I nodded, not looking forward to the long night ahead.

Since the Medical Examiner was still going over the body, I made my way over to our witness, the milkmaid with a penchant for dark alleys. I should've waited for Nichols, my partner, but I wasn't sure when he was going to show. It wasn't like me to go against procedure. I always followed the rules. Always.

But I was tired and I wanted to get the interview over with.

And maybe I was a little more irritated than usual, because I _was_ tired, and I wasn't in a mood to deal with the kind of idiot who'd wander dark a dark alley.

"You seem nervous," I said, not bothering to beat around the bush about it.

She didn't reply, just looked me up and down, a suspicious glint in her eye.

Farm-girl maybe, but not innocent. Not by a long shot. Because she was hiding something. That was obvious.

Or else she was one of _those_ people. The kind of person who hates cops on principle.

" _Are_ you nervous?" I asked.

"I just found a dead body," she replied, in a tone that told me everything I needed to know.

One of _those_ people after all.

"You seem nervous of _me_ ," I clarified.

"Oh." She dropped her arms and faced me, meeting me eye-for-eye, as if to prove me wrong. Which improved my opinion of her, if only marginally.

"What were you doing in the alley?" I wanted to know.

"It's a shortcut. From the subway." She pointed at the sign. Like maybe she thought _I_ was the idiot in this scenario.

"Kind of dangerous, a woman going down an alley at night, don't you think?"

She shrugged, like her own safety didn't matter.

"Did you see anyone?" I asked.

She thought about it for a minute. "There was—I don't know—maybe?"

I waited.

"A reflection," she continued, her eyes shifting to the side like she was thinking about it, but her tone had taken on an uncertain quality that I didn't like. "A face in one of the windows while I was walking through the garage." She shook her head. "It was probably just pareidolia," she concluded, her tone becoming more certain.

"Para-what?

Her eyes flickered towards mine again. "You know, pareidolia. Seeing patterns when there really isn't anything there." She sounded surprised at my ignorance. "People talk about it on those ghost hunting shows," she said, like that solved everything.

And I got an awful feeling. I squinted at her. "You into ghosts?" I asked.

I was really hoping that this wasn't going to turn out to be one of those overly helpful witnesses who keep getting psychic impressions from the beyond. Witnesses like that were like candy to defense attorneys.

"Mostly demons."

I blinked. "I'm sorry. What?"

"For school. I read books about demons sometimes."

"Are you drunk?" I had to ask.

She didn't seem drunk. She wasn't slurring her speech at all.

She sounded quite lucid, in fact, but that just made the situation all the stranger, because the words coming out of her mouth didn't make much sense.

"I have drunk but I am not drunk."

I studied her for a moment. "How much did you drink?" I asked.

"Less than a glass."

"You seem like you've had more than a glass," I told her. I was trying to decide whether to run a test. But I didn't want to give the defense a reason to throw out her testimony in case she could actually ID someone.

"I don't drink. I don't _usually_ drink."

"You were on a date?" I asked, because maybe that would explain what she was doing in the alley, whether it really was for a shortcut (less ominous, with a guy to tag-along) or a make-out spot. And this guy, whoever he was, didn't want to talk to cops, so he beat it when she insisted on reporting the body.

But she didn't look as if she was dressed for a date.

Not that she didn't look alright, but she didn't look like she was trying to impress anyone. Business casual.

"Happy hour," she explained.

"You work?" I didn't think she was independently wealthy, but I couldn't help wondering where a woman like her would work. Probably read tea leaves for a living.

"George Washington University."

I blinked. GW wasn't exactly Hogwarts.

"I just push papers for medical studies," she clarified.

It sounded surprisingly down-to-earth.

I made her give me the names of the co-workers who were supposedly at this happy hour with her.

"Pretty grisly stuff," I said, glancing at the book in her hands. _Violence in Late Antiquity._

"For school," she said, curling her hands around the book in question, as if to hide it from me. "I get reduced tuition, because of my job. I'm studying history."

Which explained everything I needed to know.

She was an _intellectual._

Lawyers hated seating people like her on juries. Always thinking they knew more than the people running the show.

"You'll have to come into the station so that we can get a sketch of that person you saw," I explained.

"Aren't there cameras?" she asked.

 _Oh, the naïvete_. No doubt she'd assumed that there was a camera on her the whole time, with a superhero on the other end watching, ready to step in if something went wrong.

"No," I said, a trifle harsher than was probably necessary. "There aren't any cameras in that part of the garage."

And I handed her my card, ready to pick up the conversation when she came into the station the next day.

But something must have spooked her. All of a sudden, she was coughing and looking down at my card like it was a free ticket to hell.

It was just my phone number, the name of the precinct, and, of course, my own name, Edward McMullin.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded awkwardly, but I wasn't buying it.

She didn't have a record—Ryan had checked—and she didn't exactly look like the type who'd attract a criminal element, but she did fit into a certain type, with those country looks. So innocent. No good for running jobs—people like her talked too much—but fun to play with.

Clearly from a good middle- to upper-class family— _pareidolia,_ my ass—a sitting room Socialist, who likes to throw around slogans about the "police state" to show that she's _woke_ , with a weed-dealer on speed-dial.

Thanks to my time in vice, I had plenty of experience with creatures like her, hipsters collected and kept around like pets for the mere pleasure of corruption. Creatures like her were too naïve and inept and nervous for dealers to trust them with anything of real merit. But they were useful for irritating anyone with a badge.

She had probably overheard my name from one of her friends.

I was trying to figure out a way to convince a judge to order a drug test—

Not that she exhibited any signs of habitual drug use. She looked tired, but that made sense if she was going to school and working.

Just a casual user then.

But then it occurred to me that maybe I was reading too much into it.

She was probably one of Lisa's friends.

 _And I didn't need that crap._

I could just see this idiot—this _Isabella Spencer_ —running back to Lisa to spill all of the details.

No, I wasn't freshly shaved. And my shirt was wrinkled. I needed a shower.

But I'd been up for a solid twenty-four hours trying to close another case.

I looked like hell. So what?

And it had been _two months_. Two months since Lisa had declared herself too good to date a cop.

 _Lisa could mind her own damn business._

"Miss Spencer," I paused. " _Ms_.?"

"I don't care," she said, like she was beyond titles. _Sitting room Socialist, indeed._

"Miss Spencer, do you want an officer to escort you home?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh no, I wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone."

So damn proper. So clearly desperate to get away from that alley—away from the cops in that alley—that she didn't care about her own safety.

It wasn't in the least bit suspicious.

I sent her off, and told Ryan to follow her, to make sure she got home safe and sound.

By the time I got back to the Medical Examiner, he had finished his examination of the body.

"That's some tattoo," he observed, indicating a swirl of ink on the victim's back. Caine had pulled up the victim's shirt to do his examination.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to make out the design.

"A samurai?" Caine speculated.

"Guess so." I shrugged. "So, he was stabbed?"

Caine nodded. "At least four times. Perp was probably standing behind him."

"Male or female?"

"Male, but it's just a guess. I think the perp wrapped an arm around the victim's neck, to hold him in place while he stabbed him. The victim's at least six foot. Hard target for a woman."

Spencer was tall, but not that tall. And she didn't look strong enough to pull off a stunt like that.

Caine was finishing up his notes just as my partner arrived.

"What've we got here?" Nichols asked, joining us.

"Took you long enough," I complained, not really annoyed.

"Had to take Dory back to her mom's," Nichols' explained.

Not for the first time, I was happy that I didn't have any kids.

But that just made me wonder if Lisa was right to break up with me, and I wasn't in the mood to think about Lisa.

I updated Nichols on everything he'd missed, adding that it didn't look like a robbery, which was interesting, considering the victim's address.

"Potomac?" Nichols said. "What the hell was he doing all the way out here then?"

"He's definitely on the wrong side of town."

"What about the witness?"

"Isabella Spencer. I already talked to her."

Nichols eyed me. "You didn't wait for me?"

"Knew you were busy."

"It's not like you to bend the rules."

I shrugged. Then I told him what Spencer had said.

"You think she actually saw something?" Nichols asked.

I shook my head. "Don't know. She was—strange."

"Strange?"

"I don't know. Not all there."

Nichols laughed. "Glad I missed her then."

"You can see her tomorrow. She's coming into the station to give a description of the person she _thinks_ that she saw in the garage."

"Defense'll have a field day with that."

"Yep."

"So, we'll talk to Metro security about your witness, and then Potomac?"

"I'm not dressed for a dinner party," I said, glancing down at myself.

Nichols laughed. "Come on, it'll give 'em something to talk about."

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"It's creepy as fuck."

I shrugged. The painting was obviously Japanese, but that was about all that I could tell.

I didn't go in for art myself. My walls were absolutely bare.

But my mother had family portraits everywhere you turned, even a couple of those old black-and-white daguer-whatchamacallits with silver-eyes looking out of 'em. I hated them. My dad'd never let her put any of them up. But after he was shot—

"Come on, you'd have that hanging in your living room?" Nichols pointed at a particularly colorful print of two blood-spattered figures—ghosts?—attacking a couple.

"The composition has a pleasing symmetry," Sanders said, glancing up from her camera.

"It'd give Dory nightmares," Nichols observed.

"But you're fine brainwashing your five-year-old daughter with Disney."

"Disney isn't—"

"This one looks like the vic's tattoo," I interrupted, pointing out another print.

Sanders stepped up to get a picture of it as I started inspecting the bookshelves, the volumes on Japanese art and Zen Buddhism.

We'd yet to turn up anything suspicious, except for the pictures, of course.

And when Nichols and Sanders went into the other room, I stopped to study the prints once more.

They were all done in the same strange style—like comic books, but not—but they didn't appear to have been done by the same artist. And the subjects were all supernatural. Ghosts and skeletons and demons, against a medieval Japanese backdrop.

Ghouls were besieging some sort of party, men cowering with their heads pressed into the floor as craven, rat-like and snakish one-eyed monsters leered over them.

Another fellow, however, looked utterly unimpressed, gazing over his shoulder at a black cloud of smoke with zero chill. Of course he had two swords at the ready and a bamboo umbrella that looked like it could do a bit of damage if handled the right way.

And the samurai from the tattoo was also there, in a larger print that included a wild, horned, gray-blue demon raising a sword behind the samurai's back. The samurai didn't look worried. At all.

There was something about the compositions of the pictures—the brilliant coloring of the scenery and the bright shades used to render the living, juxtaposed against the grey-white, almost nauseating yellow used for the ghosts, and the contrast between the easy, whimsical lines of the living, against the eerie, grotesque features of the dead—it was unsettling.

Nichols was right. It was creepy as fuck.

And expensive. I couldn't tell if these were original prints. But they definitely looked expensive.

The whole place looked like money, in fact. It was positively sleek. Dark, smooth lines.

This Murota guy had expensive tastes.

"Gun in the bedroom closet," Nichols said returning. "Checking to see if it was registered. Some cash too. Nearly a thousand. And there was a wall safe in the office. Not open yet. Nothing suspicious in the desk."

"Pretty cozy place for a real estate agent," I observed.

"Popular guy, too," Nichols said, nodding at the potted plant in the entryway, obviously a new delivery.

"It's hideous," Sanders said, passing by.

And it _was_ ugly. An assortment of yellow, leafy foliage. Thick green vines crept out of the pot, trailing, broken, on the floor.

It looked like something out of _The Little Shop of Horrors_.

One of those plastic sticks was poking out of the greenery, but there was no card.

I spied something crumpled in the wastebasket. "Anyone check this yet?" I asked.

"It's all yours," Nichols said.

It _was_ a card, but with no note. And the picture was another ghoulish print: A man, clearly terrified, recoiling from a bizarre, spectral head.

I handed the card to Nichols.

"Hey," he said, turning the card over. "It's the plant."

I glanced back at the pot on the ground, then the card. It _was_ the same plant.

"They look like eyes," Nichols said, pointing at the picture.

And he was right again. The black spots in the center of the yellow leaves looked like eyes.

"You alright?" I asked, squinting at him.

"I just don't want a weird case."

"This isn't a weird case."

"We already have a weird witness," Nichols reminded me.

And I had to admit that he was right, again. Three for three.

What were the chances that a woman who studied demons would accidentally stumble across the body of a guy who collected pictures of them?

 **AN:**

 **The picture on the card was Utagawa Kuniyoshi's** ** _Snake Mountain_** **. The tattoo was Tsukioka Yoshitoshi's** ** _Sadanobu and Oni_** **. The prints in the living room were Utagawa Kunisada's** ** _The Ghosts of Matahachi and Kikuno_** **, Katsushika Hokusai's** ** _New Version of a Perspective Print: Haunted House_** **, and Kanagai Robun's** ** _Fuwa Bansaku_** **.**

 **Rating is for language. Unbetaed. 16 chapters.**

 **This isn't fluff. Neither Edward nor Bella go out of their way to make themselves likable. (It's my experience that people are, as a rule, assholes. And parts of this little novella are inspired by a true story.) But there's minimal angst.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"Silently, I put on_

 _Today's straw sandals."_ – Santōka Taneda 9 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 2

I went home and got two hours of sleep. Then I was back at work.

A few months back, there was a departmental memo about not pushing ourselves too hard. Apparently, some psychologist had published a study saying that policemen weren't at their best when they were exhausted.

 _Who knew?_

Until they fixed the budget so that they could hire more detectives, or crime took a holiday, there wasn't much that anyone could do about reducing the workload.

And for the most part, I didn't mind. I didn't have a family and I wasn't looking for one.

Nichols said that I had it backwards, that family made the job tolerable.

But it seems to me that when you're looking for ways to make a job tolerable, maybe it's the wrong job for you.

Lisa didn't get that. She didn't understand why I was a detective.

Recruits tell their friends and family that they're becoming cops because they just want to help people. That's not exactly true, though, because a person could become a doctor or a fireman, do good without doing any harm.

I didn't harbor any delusions: Cops hurt people. Cops lied and took bribes and looked the other way when bad things happened. Cops killed kids and never faced jail time thanks to the color of their skin.

I was a cop because I didn't trust the police. One of my mother's boyfriends was a cop, and he liked to beat the shit out of her. I even called the police once, but they covered for him.

That told me everything that I needed to know about the illustrious fraternal order of policemen.

I became a cop so that I could keep my eye on them. More importantly, I wanted to show that it could be done differently. To prove that cops didn't _have_ to be bad, to make it all the more obvious that their corruption was a choice. And thus a sin.

I wanted to do it right.

And I wasn't all that bad. Or so I liked to tell myself.

I made mistakes. It was human nature. I went to court with cases that weren't 100%. But I never intentionally cut corners—interviewing Spencer on my own, that was an aberration. I followed the rules. And I did my best. Even when my best was kind of crappy.

I liked to think that I was a good cop. Particularly on days like this, running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower.

"You look like you're going to pass out," Nichols observed.

I sat up straighter. "Bout time you showed."

"I've already been here an hour," he said.

"Hiding in the bathroom?"

"Talking to Murphy. He's talking to the victim's accountant, looking for anything shady."

"Have him check up on the dead wife, too," I said. The victim was a widower, his wife having died of some sort of illness. We'd come across the death certificate in the guy's safe.

"Already on it. He's still going everything we found in the safe. Looking for any firms the vic might have worked with."

In addition to the death certificate, they'd found several accounting books in the safe. The vic appeared to be a self-employed real estate agent. But nothing looked shady. Yet.

We still had no idea what the victim was doing in that alley, and our list of suspects was woefully short.

But while we were waiting for some leads to come back on the vic's family and any questionable business deals he might have had a hand in, we were going to nail down the alibi for our only suspect.

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Cindy King was a bubblegum blonde, complete with the bubblegum. She just kept on popping and chewing, her eyes like saucers as she stared at us over the monitor sitting on her desk.

She was employed as an IT specialist at the same biostatistical firm that employed Isabella Spencer. And if Miss King was anything to go by, IT wasn't for nerds anymore.

"Isabella left then," Miss King explained. "It was pretty clear that she wasn't interested in hanging out. But then, she never is." _Pop._

Nichols was nodding like a puppy, encouraging Miss King to elaborate. "So she left alone then."

Miss King started to answer, but then stopped. "Well she left alone, but Marcus left right after. I thought that he was going to try to catch up with her." _Pop. Chew. Pop._

"Did he come back?" I asked, because Nichols' puppy dog impersonation was wearing on my nerves.

Miss King's head swung in my direction. _Pop_. "Nope." _She even popped the 'p.'_ "But I don't think that he went home with her. She's too much of a prude. I don't know what Marcus sees in her."

I opened my mouth to reply, but Nichols was already thanking her for her assistance and asking if Marcus was available.

We were directed to a set of cubicles, and even managed to make our way there without causing too much of a stir. But Mr. Marcus Stottin wasn't interested in talking.

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Excuse me?" Nichols asked, the puppy adopting a confused look.

Mr. Stottin crossed his arms. "I don't have to talk to you if I don't want to. I know my rights."

"We're just trying to do our job," Nichols said, trying to reason with the well-informed-citizen-who-knew-his-rights.

"So am I," Mr. Stottin retorted. "And my job actually means helping people. Unlike yours."

I didn't know what biostatistics was, and for all I knew it cured cancer or some shit, but this Stottin guy was a prick.

"We're trying to clear your friend in an ongoing criminal investigation," I said. "If you don't want to help, that's fine. But you're not doing your friend any favors and you're definitely not helping anyone by keeping a murderer on the streets."

Mr. Stottin reconsidered. "Fine," he sighed. "Yes I followed Isabella out of the bar. Yes I wanted to talk to her. No I didn't catch up with her and no we didn't talk. She was gone by the time that I made it to the sidewalk."

"What did you want to talk about?" I asked.

"Work."

I raised an eyebrow. "Work?"

Mr. Stottin shrugged.

"It couldn't wait for today?" Nichols asked.

"I wanted her to cover for me at the meeting this morning. She always gets in early. I was going to ask her to run my reports for me."

I scoffed. "So you wanted her to lie for you?"

"We run each other's reports all of the time."

"We heard that you might have another reason for wanting to catch up with her," Nichols said.

Mr. Stottin adopted an imperious gaze. "Well it doesn't matter, does it? Since I didn't catch up with her."

"We heard that you were maybe interested in her."

" _Interested?_ " Mr. Stottin chuckled. "In _that_ space cadet? No thanks."

Stottin's tone was really ticking me off. Not that I disagreed with the substance of what he was saying, but I didn't care for his tone.

Fortunately, Nichols saved me the effort. "What do you mean? Space cadet?"

"Like she's crazy. High strung. Smart. But crazy. I'm not making the same mistake Jack made. Don't shit where you eat, if you know what I mean."

"Jack?"

"Jack Marin. He used to work here. Not in the same department, but he and Isabella were like that." Stottin held up two fingers, entwined. "Them and Veema."

"Veema? He—"

" _She_."

"She work here too?"

Stottin nodded. "In the same department as Isabella and me. Veema's gone now, like Jack, but the three of them were joined at the hip at one point. It was weird, if you ask me."

"In other words," I interrupted, "you were jealous."

Nichols and Stottin both looked a little shocked at my suggestion.

But it was obvious that this Stottin loser was a waste of space.

"You got anything solid to hold against Miss Spencer?" I asked.

"She does her work," Stottin said after a pause. "I can't complain about her work ethic. She doesn't like happy hours, though. And who doesn't like happy hours?"

I was about to answer that question when Nichols cut me off. Thanking Stottin for his time, Nichols got the directions to the next cubicle.

And so it went.

The other employees who'd attended the previous evening's happy hour confirmed Spencer's story. She'd left early—well, _early_ in everyone else's opinion—but apparently that wasn't unusual for her. She wasn't exactly a social butterfly.

Unfortunately, Isabella Spencer's story hit a bit of a snag after that.

The Metro employees couldn't remember seeing her. And two of the cameras weren't working at the station where the vic was found.

The third camera _was_ working. It captured Spencer's departure from the station.

Or rather, it captured her meandering slowly towards the garage. At one point, she stopped and stared up at a streetlight for a full four minutes.

If I didn't know better, I would've said that she was intentionally wasting time.

We were still running the plates from the garage. So far, nothing suspicious had come up, and it was going to take some more time to check the plates against the vic's known associates.

Interestingly, the vic's car wasn't in the garage. And it didn't look as if he'd taken the subway, because he didn't have a Metro card on him.

But we'd pulled the records for Isabella Spencer's Metro card. And they didn't match her story.

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"I think you should talk to her alone," Nichols said, eyeing Spencer, who's sitting with the sketch artist.

"Why?" We usually question people together.

"You've got a rapport already."

I snorted. "I doubt it."

"Well, let me see you two together, and if you need help, I'll step in."

I shook my head, because I didn't like the game that Nichols was playing. But as soon as Spencer was done with the artist, I snagged her so that we could have a talk.

She looked uneasy, like she was weighing her chances of getting out of the precinct without having to talk to me. Commonsense must've told her not to chance it, though, because she followed me into the interrogation room.

"So, why were you in that alley last night?" I asked, not bothering with a preamble, eyeing the way that Spencer was fidgeting in her chair.

She clasped her fingers together, as though willing herself to sit still. "To get home," she said, her tone implying that she wasn't very impressed with this line of questioning.

"But why the alley? It's pretty dirty. And the streetlight's broken. Why would a young woman like you want to walk down an alley like that?"

"It's a shortcut."

"A dangerous shortcut."

"The long way around is just as dangerous. Just danger spread out. The alley crams it all into one space so you get it over with."

I had to think for a minute, because she wasn't making any sense. "Danger? It's just a sidewalk."

"There might be people," she said, like it was completely logical to worry about a crowded sidewalk.

"Normally, a young woman like you feels safer when there are more people around."

"But they might want to bother you."

And something about the way she said that—like she was speaking from personal experience about the kinds of random cruelty that perfect strangers visited upon each other for no reason at all—made me wonder about her.

I was used to all types of people. In my line of work, I had no choice but to study them. I was by no means a psychologist, but to be a good detective, you had to get a feel for the way a person thought.

Some people just blustered. They screamed and screamed, and sometimes they used their fists, too, because that was all they knew.

Other people just went quiet. Scraped raw and bleeding, they just went dead silent. Not a whisper. They didn't give up. But they didn't have anything to say to you either.

When life kicked you, you either blustered or you went silent.

Spencer was the type of person who went silent.

"Why were you out so late?" I asked, knowing that it would aggravate her, because she'd already answered the question a couple of times at least.

But something about her story didn't ring true. And it wasn't my job to hold her hand.

"I went out with coworkers."

"No one came home with you?"

She looked confused. "Came home with me?"

"You know, did one of your coworkers accompany you?"

She blushed. "No. No one came home with me. I wouldn't do that."

Not wanting to push her—sensing that it would be the wrong tack—I decided to go for conciliatory. "I can be discreet, you know. It doesn't have to get back to your boss." Maybe she was worried about an inter-office romance.

That Stottin guy had implied that she'd had a problem with that in the past.

"No one came home with me," she repeated a bit too vehemently.

So either she was lying or she was just upset over the line of questioning. I didn't see why it should bother her. Was it really so crazy to imagine a guy—or a woman—wanting to take her home?

Spencer wasn't Charlize Theron, maybe. But she wasn't exactly Quasimodo either.

I watched her for a few more beats, waiting for her to give herself away, but she didn't so much as twitch. I sighed. "It's just as well. But you know, it would help if we could get someone to corroborate your story about the guy in the garage."

"I didn't say there was a guy in the garage."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "You just sat down with a sketch artist."

"I didn't say it was a guy."

She clearly thought that I was trying to trick her into contradicting herself. I'd glanced at the sketch. It resembled a man, but it could have been a woman.

The sketch, in fact, was so nondescript that it was just about useless.

"What time did you leave the bar?" I asked.

"Can't my Metro card tell you when I entered and left the subway?"

But I didn't want to go there just yet, so I changed the subject again. "One of your coworkers left at the same time as you."

"If you say so," she replied carefully.

"How much did you drink?"

"Less than a glass."

"You didn't take a sip out of anyone else's drink?"

She thought about her answer. "Just a sip."

I decided to give her an out, see if she took the bait. "You seemed a little confused last night. Like maybe you'd had more than one drink."

"I'm not a heavy drinker."

"Why not? You don't like your coworkers?" I thought her coworkers seemed like tools, but I wanted to hear her explanation.

"I just—I just don't. That's all. No reason."

"You don't go to many of these happy hours, do you?"

"No."

"Trying to avoid someone?" It sounded like she had a bad history with some of her ex-coworkers. Maybe one of them was still carrying a grudge, and had followed her home from the bar. That Jack guy, whoever he was.

"Avoid someone?"

"A coworker maybe." I shrugged, having decided to lay it all out for her. "You had an affair and it ended badly and now it's hard to see him around. Especially outside of work. So you usually skip happy hours."

"I'm not seeing anyone."

"But you _were_ seeing someone."

"No."

"Then why don't you like to go out drinking with your coworkers?"

"It's—I'm awkward."

"Awkward?"

She wasn't lying. She seemed awkward, alright, trying to explain herself to me.

Alas, awkwardness could be a cover for deception.

She began fidgeting again. "I don't get along with my coworkers. I don't like drinking and it's awkward."

I wasn't buying it. "Why do you go if you don't like them and you don't like drinking?"

"Because you're supposed to. You're supposed to go to happy hours and have a beer even if you don't want to. To seem social."

Again, she wasn't lying. _But still_. "So you didn't stay long?"

"I left as soon as I could."

"But one of your coworkers left at the same time."

"I didn't know that."

"Why would he leave at the same time as you?" I asked, purposely leaving out the name of the individual in question. "Doesn't he like going to happy hours?

"I don't know."

"Could he have followed you home on the subway?"

"I was alone." She looked like she was trying to picture the scene. "No one else was walking out of the station."

"Except for the guy in the parking lot. The one you saw."

It only took her a few seconds to recover. "He must have already been there."

"You just said that you weren't sure that it was a guy." I couldn't help feeling annoyed, remembering all of her bullshit about the lighting in the garage.

"Him. Her. Whoever."

"And didn't you say that you weren't sure if it was a trick of the light?"

"It might have been a trick of the light."

I shook my head. "What'd you call it? Pareidolia? I looked it up. You were right, that's what it's called. Why d'you use big words like that when you can just say 'trick of the light'?"

She didn't answer, and I could tell that I'd gotten to her.

I dropped my voice. "You know, we sometimes get witnesses who try to inject themselves into cases. They do their civic duty in reporting what they know, which is great, they've done the right thing. And that gives them a sense of importance. So they try to help a little more. They even make stuff up sometimes. Things that aren't true. Because they're trying to help."

She was perfectly mum.

I asked again, "Did you see anyone in the garage?"

"I don't know," she said, an aggrieved tone entering her voice, like she was through with this questioning and through with me.

"You went home alone?"

"I was alone."

"How long did you wait to call 911 after you found the body?"

"I didn't wait. I called right away."

"The time stamp on your Metro card says you exited the station eighteen minutes before you called 911. Are you telling me it took you eighteen minutes to walk 400 yards?"

She looked genuinely shocked. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, like she was trying to think of what to say. Like she thought I was maybe trying to trick her.

Then a resolute look came over her face and she sat up straighter. "I must've dawdled," she said.

"Dawdled? It was an empty Metro station after dark and you're a young female."

"Weren't there any cameras?" Some of her self-confidence was starting to dissipate.

"Most of them were broken."

" _Most_ of them?" She sounded almost outraged.

"There's footage of you on one of the cameras," I admitted.

"And what am I doing on it?"

Reluctantly, I replied. "You're dawdling."

She looked almost triumphant. "Well if you've got footage of me dawdling, then you know damn well that no one came home with me."

I shrugged, because I still wasn't willing to commit. Maybe no one was on her tail, but she could've been waiting for someone.

Either she took the shrug as a sign that I was done with her, or she'd finally lost her patience, because she stood up.

"I'm going," she said, with a tone that was equal parts defiant and pleading, as if worried that I might say she was under arrest.

"You can go. But stay in the area."

She blinked. "In the area—are you serious? I have to go to work and school. And my family. I _have_ to leave the area."

"Your folks live in Maryland, though, right?"

She nodded.

"So don't leave the state."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but must have decided against it. She agreed—a hasty "Fine"—and fled.

"So what'd ya think?" I asked Nichols as we watched Spencer trying pretty damn hard to look like she wasn't in a hurry as she wove her way through the maze of desks to the exit.

"You were going pretty hard on her," he said.

I scoffed. "No harder than I usually do."

"If you say so."

"You should've been in there with me. We could've gotten something out of her."

"You really think there's something there?" Nichols asked.

I hesitated.

She was acting guilty as hell, no denying that. She was acting like she had something to hide.

And yet her horror when she realized the issue with her Metro card and the lost time.

And then her obvious confusion.

Whatever she was hiding, I didn't think it was murder.

And yet—

"I think she's gonna be a gift to the defense," I said.

 **AN: Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"A single bird comes_

 _But does not sing."_ Santōka Taneda 171 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 3

"Maybe it was a ghost."

I stared at Nichols.

"No prints," he explained, like I was dense. "Ghosts don't leave prints."

I shook my head.

"What?"

We'd had no luck on tracking down the source of the potted plant delivered to the victim's home. The nearest neighbor lived a quarter mile down the road and there were no cameras to catch a delivery van—or anyone else—coming and going. And neither the pot nor the card had yielded any fingerprints, save for those of the victim. Hence, Nichols' observation regarding the ghost.

"No prints. That's strange, don't you think?" I asked.

"Lots that's strange here I think, not least of which is _your_ witness."

"She's not _my_ witness."

I didn't like the implication that Spencer somehow belonged to me. As if Nichols would be able to get a straight answer out of her, when she had me spinning in circles.

We were still waiting to hear back from the forensic accountant about Murota's books, but we'd already started talking to known business associates. Of course, the two we'd already seen had nothing but good things to say about Murota now that he was dead. And they had ironclad alibis for the time of the murder.

We had also checked into the garage next to the alley where Murota's body was found. None of the license plates of the cars parked in the garage at the time of the murder appeared to have a connection to the victim.

Ryan was canvassing the Metro station, looking for commuters who might have seen the victim or Spencer. He was going to keep at it for a while, but so far he had nothing.

Meanwhile, we were looking into Murota's background. He only had a few cousins on his mother's side in the States, but his father's family had some pretty interesting connections back in Japan.

"Yakuza? In Silver Spring?" Nichols asked. "That's MS13 territory."

"Could be someone's making inroads."

Nichols shook his head. "Fuck this urban warfare shit. I'm gonna take Dory and move to the country."

I snorted. "Then it'll be the guys in white sheets."

"Man, this whole country is fucked."

"Anyhow," I continued, ignoring Nichols' assessment of the country's well-being, "I'm waiting to hear back from my guy in vice. Looks like Mr. Murota wasn't too popular with the cousins back in Japan. I guess he was the red-headed stepchild at the family reunion, his mother being American. His _wife's_ family is in the States' though. They're all the way out in Laurel."

"You wanna go there now?"

"Avoid rush hour."

"It's _always_ rush hour," Nichols complained, fairly enough.

"You could always move to the country," I reminded him.

"Screw you."

-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-

"I told her not to marry him," Mr. Taru Akiyama complained, his hands shaking as he brought the tea cup to his lips. The trembling was obviously more a sign of age than emotion, but I couldn't help wondering if his daughter's death had anything to do with the deterioration of his condition.

His daughter patted his hand, and confirmed my suspicions. "My sister's death was very hard on us."

Nichols shook his head. "My daughter's only four. I can't imagine losing her. It would destroy me."

Mr. Akiyama nodded. "Then you know. I spoke to detectives but they told me that there was nothing to investigate. I _told_ them that my daughter had been murdered. But no one would listen to me."

"Murdered?" My tone wasn't rude. But that was a serious accusation.

Mr. Akiyama's eyes flickered to me. "He killed her. Murota."

"Her own husband?"

Nodding vigorously, Mr. Akiyama tried to answer, but started coughing and couldn't finish. So his daughter, a Ms. Suzu Akiyama, took over, fluttering around him as she described her sister's death, moving his tea cup and rubbing his back.

"Midori was in the best of health. She played on the tennis team in college. She was very athletic. There was nothing wrong with her. And then she met Mitsuhiro. She was so happy. I didn't think that anything was wrong. I was happy for her, at first. He seemed to dote on her so much, always sending her flowers and little gifts, even before they were married."

Mr. Akiyama raised his hand, one gaunt finger pointing to the mantel.

Ms. Akiyama retrieved a picture frame from the mantel and handed it to me. "This is my sister a month before she was married. Look at her. Don't tell me that she looks sick."

I looked. The face beaming out of the picture at me was the very picture of health. I handed the picture frame to Nichols.

By then, Ms. Akiyama had pulled a stack of photos out of a desk drawer. "These are after she was married. They're in chronological order. You can see it for yourself."

I saw it alright. The first few photos in the stack bore a striking resemblance to the woman in the picture frame, albeit some of the light seemed to have gone out of her. But I went through the stack, the woman in the photos seemed to age, right before my eyes, as though she was victim to some serious illness.

"She saw the doctor?" I asked, coming to the last few photos.

"We took her to one specialist after another. They couldn't find anything wrong with her."

"And her husband?"

Ms. Akiyama sneered. "He showered her with affection. But only when other people were around. He abandoned her. He left her to die."

"That's not really murder."

" _Look_ at her," Ms. Akiyama implored. " _That_ isn't natural."

I paused on the last photo in the stack. The woman in the picture absolutely bore no resemblance to the woman in the picture frame. In the space of a year, Mrs. Murota looked as if she had aged two decades. Her skin was sallow and sagging. She had begun to lose her hair. And one eye was swollen, enormous and limpid in her pinched face.

"She was in agony," Ms. Akiyama concluded. "And her husband was responsible."

"Stress?" I asked, seriously doubting that stress alone could do something like that.

"Poison. He was poisoning her."

I handed the photos to Nichols. "Why would he want to hurt her?"

Mr. Akiyama's voice shook as he answered. "Her money. He wanted her money."

-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-

We requested the files on Mrs. Murota, but there was no evidence of foul play. She had been sick for months, and the doctors were running circles around themselves to pin down a diagnosis. The death certificate listed heart failure, which sounded pretty suspicious. But the body had been cremated, so there was no chance of another autopsy.

After that, things slowed down. Oh, we were still running down leads. The forensic accountant kept turning up dubious investments, and we were working our way through a long list of disgruntled associates to go through. But nothing was sticking out just yet.

As we waited for a few pieces of the investigation to come together, I decided to take a harder look at our star witness, Spencer.

Just for due diligence of course.

Nichols had some nerve, calling Spencer "my" witness. But I was willing to admit that I'd dropped the ball in our first interview, not pushing her a little harder. I was damned if I was going to spend all of this time building a case, just for some defense lawyer to put Spencer on the stand and blow the prosecution out of the water, implying that she knew more than she was saying or that her testimony wasn't worth the court's time because she was madder than—

Well, a little weird anyway.

If Spencer was going to screw up our case, we needed to neutralize her as soon as possible.

And yeah, I was going to leave Nichols out of it, at least for the moment. I didn't want to hear more crap from him about how she was _my_ witness and I was letting her run circles around me.

Besides, he had enough on his plate with his ex- giving him hell over spending time with his kid.

I started with Spencer's supervisor, a statistician by the name of Mrs. Davies. I got an appointment near closing time so as to duck the office gossips, assuming that was even possible.

"Oh, oh," Mrs. Davies said, when I explained what I was there for.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

Mrs. Davies's eyes darted toward mine. "Oh, no. No, not really."

I waited.

"Isabella's a sweet woman," Mrs. Davies explained. "She just has _difficulties._ "

"Difficulties? Like at work?"

"With _people_. She doesn't always get along very well with people."

I wasn't surprised, but I wanted her to explain it to me. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to say anything bad—"

"Miss Spencer's not a suspect," I kind of lied.

"Well then, why do you need me to say anything?"

I backtracked. "You could help clear her."

"She wouldn't hurt anyone."

"I'm sure she wouldn't. But I need you to help me help her."

Mrs. Davies thought about it for a minute before starting up again. "Isabella's a _hard_ worker. And she's _so smart_. In fact, I think that might be her problem."

"Being smart?"

Mrs. Davies nodded. "I think she's bored most of the time. I know she's in school, most of the junior staff here is, and we know that they do some of their schoolwork here. It's alright. We can't afford to pay them a competitive salary. So, as long as they get their actual work done, we don't complain. We understand how hard it is to balance work and school. But it doesn't seem to be a problem for Isabella. At least, not like that. I mean, it's not _hard_ for her. If anything, I think she's bored. She's always taking on extra work here, and she's still bored."

"And that's a problem?" I asked, not quite getting it.

"I think that people bore her, too. I mean, she's nice. She _tries_ to be nice. You can tell she's trying. But it's so obvious that she's forcing it. And she's shy. She hardly ever talks to anyone, except—" Something flickered across Mrs. Davies' face. "Well, that's been over for a while. And it won't happen again."

"What?"

She was obviously reluctant to explain. "Isabella grew rather close with two other staff members. I think something happened. Anyhow, the other two are both gone now. One went to graduate school fulltime, in Iowa, I think, and the other one finished her Masters and got a better job."

"What happened between them?"

Mrs. Davies shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think anyone does. Things were always—the three of them seemed a little _too_ close, if you know what I mean." Mrs. Davies paused. "Then the three of them went away for the weekend—to one of those islands in the Caribbean. Isabella and Veema pretended that it was just the two of them. A girl's holiday. But we all know that Jack went with them. And afterwards—"

"Afterwards?"

Mrs. Davies looked reluctant again.

I tried to reassure her. "Look, I won't tell Miss Spencer that you told me anything. This stays between us, unless it has a bearing on the case."

"Something must have happened. I don't know what. Afterwards, Isabella wasn't speaking to them anymore. Which was so awkward—you can't imagine how awkward it was. Isabella and Veema _shared an office_ for God's sake. And Veema and Jack—" Mrs. Davies shook her head. "Veema seemed to take a perverse pleasure out of the situation. You could tell she was angry, just so very angry with Isabella. Stuff like this happens in the office sometimes. Politics, you know. But Veema seemed to take so much pleasure out of finding small ways to stick it to Isabella. Making sure that she was left out of things, and that Isabella _knew_ that she was being left out. Arranging it so that Isabella had to pick up extra work."

"And what's-his-name—Jack?"

"Technically, he was in a different department. If anything, he just seemed sad. To tell you the truth, I never understood what he was doing with Isabella and Veema. He was—" she cut off again.

"Mrs. Davies—"

"It's just, I'm not supposed to notice things like this. It's considered harassment, you know."

I made a little gesture to show that it would stay between us.

"Jack's very good looking. _Very_ good looking. And Isabella—well—you've seen her. She's ordinary. Veema even more so. Not exactly the kind of women you'd expect a guy who looked like Jack to take an interest in."

"What was his interest? Sex?"

Mrs. Davies' eyes widened again. "Oh, I don't have any proof. Of course, I don't have any proof, but I did wonder sometimes. And if anything—well, if anything, I wondered if the two of them were taking advantage of Isabella. Veema was older than both of them, you know. And she was divorced—not that that's a bad thing. I just mean that Veema was more world-weary than Isabella. This is Isabella's first job out of college. And I think that Veema was a little jealous of Isabella, because she outranked her. I mean, Isabella outranked Veema. That was just because Isabella started earlier. And even though Veema had more work experience, they had the same position. It's just the way things are."

"Why would Veema take this job if she had so much work experience?"

"I assume that Veema wanted the reduced rate for tuition. It's worth it, you know. GW's the most expensive school in the area."

Oh, I knew it alright. I'd graduated from UMBC— _University of Maryland, Baltimore Campus_ , or, as its alumni preferred to call it, _U Made a Bad Choice_. It wasn't half as expensive as GW, though.

"So these two are gone now—has everything gone back to normal?" I asked.

Mrs. Davies pursed her lips. "Well, we've moved Isabella to a cubicle out in the hallway. I'm sure she thinks that we're penalizing her—it was a _distraction_ , you know, everything that went on with the three of them, people were always talking about it—but we needed someone to move, we were running out of room. And I think that people still hold a grudge against Isabella. They all picked sides, afterwards. At least some of them did. I don't think that they even knew what had happened. But they picked sides. I think they resented Isabella for being so different."

"If she was so shy, how did those two latch on to her?"

"I think it was _because_ she was shy. _Because_ she posed a challenge. I think she interested them."

"But you said she was so smart. How's a smart woman like that let herself fall for something like that?"

"You can be smart in some ways and foolish in others. In fact, I think it's _because_ Isabella's got so much book-smarts. She has extra time to waste. Most of the people in her position are just struggling to keep their head above water. They don't have time for social problems. Isabella has lots of time on her hands, lots of time to go around stirring up problems."

I got an ominous feeling. "You make it sound like it was really Isabella's fault, after all, what happened with her and these other two."

"Well, she's an adult. It's hard sometimes, but you've gotta grow up at some point."

I figured that I had got about as much as I was going to get out of Mrs. Davies, so I thanked her and made my way out.

I'd almost made it to the exit when I was stopped.

"Hey, you back already?"

It was one of the employees we'd already spoken to. Langstrom. Kelly Langstrom.

"Just checking up on some things."

"Why? Something happen?"

I didn't reply.

She glanced around the deserted hallway. "You know, I wasn't entirely truthful with you, the other day."

I raised an eyebrow.

She rushed to explain: "It's just so hard. You don't want to be mean, you know?"

I shrugged.

"Everyone's gone for the day. Isabella's already left. You can come back to my office and no one'll bother us."

So I followed her back to her office, a tiny room with a small window, two huge desks taking up most of the space.

"Just closing the door to make sure no one overhears," Miss Langstrom explained, making a big production out of it.

"You know Isabella long?" I asked, settling into a chair along the wall.

"Two years now," Miss Langstrom answered, sitting down on the edge of the desk and crossing her legs. But she wasn't wearing a skirt, so it was more for effect than anything else. I wasn't impressed.

"And you think you know something that I should hear."

"I know I do. I know all about what happened with her and Veema and Jack. Did Davies tell you?"

"She told some things."

Miss Langstrom snorted indelicately. "She has no idea. Isabella made an idiot out of herself. Throwing herself at Jack like that. What did she think that Jack was going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he was out of her league."

Spencer wasn't a _Sports Illustrated_ model, maybe, but she wasn't exactly Quasimodo. So I just raised an eyebrow again, and let Miss Langstrom fill in the gaps.

What I heard then was a lot of vicious bullshit. The kind of things women say about each other behind closed doors. Men don't do that.

We do other shit, but not that.

"Anyhow, I think she's crazy," the little tattle-tale concluded. "High strung. Sure, she works her ass off. But who cares when she's running around causing all of these fights? Who wants that at work?"

"She ever do anything to you?" I asked, wondering what was really going on.

Miss Langstrom feigned shock. "Me? Well no—but, it causes workplace unrest, you know? Lowers efficiency."

"Efficiency?"

"Yeah."

"Cuz people are running around gossiping instead of working?"

Miss Langstrom blinked. "Well Isabella wouldn't talk about what happened. And neither would Jack. Veema just said that Isabella ruined their vacation. She said Isabella was a little bitch."

"And that mattered?"

"You had to figure out how to talk to them. About work stuff. It was awkward to walk into Veema and Isabella's room with them not talking to each other."

"Is there anything else that you can tell me?"

Miss Langstrom looked annoyed. "The point is, I think Isabella's getting more and more unhinged. I wouldn't be surprised if she walked into work and killed us all one day."

I looked at her coolly. "Is that a serious accusation?"

She seemed to have second-thoughts. "Well, no, I don't know."

"Has she ever threatened anyone? Said anything that suggested she had any grievances?"

"No."

"What about Veema and this Jack guy? You said Isabella wouldn't talk about it. So has she ever threatened them or said she held a grudge?"

"That was the problem. She _wouldn't_ talk about it. That's weird."

"Do _you_ have any grievances against Miss Spencer?"

Miss Langstrom's mouth fell open. "I—I'm a professional. And, no, she hasn't done anything to me _in particular._ But she's not very friendly, you know. She comes to happy hours but I don't think she even likes them."

"I can't imagine why."

She narrowed her eyes. "You know, I bet she isn't a witness after all. I bet she murdered that guy."

 **AN: Thanks for reading.**

 **FYI, the island in this story is one of the larger islands in the Turks and Caicos. They were absolutely slammed by the recent bout of hurricanes. Please consider donating to the recovery of everyone affected by these storms (as well as the earthquakes in Mexico…and the wildfires in the USA…and the flooding in Asia).**

 **And if you're an American and you happen to call your members of Congress demanding an investigation into the genocidal malpractice that's going on with regard to hurricane recovery in Puerto Rico (and the efforts to speed up the climate change that is contributing to all of these disasters), well, I think that would just make you the bee's knees.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"Why is such_

 _A plaintive wind blowing?"_ Santōka Taneda 128 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 4

I checked. Spencer didn't have a gun permit. She didn't have a criminal record. And nothing I'd seen of her suggested a violent streak. A weird streak, maybe, but not a violent streak.

And her coworkers sounded like assholes.

Unfortunately, we weren't making any progress on the rest of the investigation—the forensic accountants still waiting on bank records—so I shoved everything to the side, just for a few hours, so that I could enjoy a meal with my cousin.

Marge was my only family. And she was crazy. But I had long since decided that I could put up with a little crazy if it meant keeping on to my last living relative.

(Well, last living relative that I knew of. I had no intention of looking up anyone left on my dad's side.)

"You're a jerk," Marge said, stealing a tomato from my plate.

"How am I a jerk?" I settled back in my chair, wondering where this was going to go.

"Just calling it like I see it. Your aura this month is especially dark."

I grinned. "My aura?"

She nodded. "Yep. I'm getting better with picking up on other colors now, but I can still see you coming from a mile away." Marge waved her fingers in the air. "Like a neon sign."

"Say, I know you're a witch—"

"A _wiccan_ ," Marge corrected me. "The other w— word is the patriarchy's label."

"A _wiccan_ ," I amended my statement. "You know anything about Buddhism?"

"Which kind?"

"Which kind?" I wrinkled my brow.

"They're not all the same."

I blinked, then pulled out my phone to check. "Says here it's Zen. Do you know what that is?"

Marge adopted a serene expression that didn't quite suit her. "Empty-handed I go, and behold the spade is in my hand."

I opened my mouth to interrupt, but she wasn't done yet.

"I walk on foot, and yet on the back of an ox I am riding; When I pass over the bridge, Lo, the water floweth not, but the bridge doth flow."

She stopped.

After a minute, I ventured to ask if she was done.

"It's Shan-hui," she explained.

I looked at her blankly.

She rolled her eyes at my obtuseness. "That verse has been said to be the perfect expression of Zen Buddhism."

"Sorry, what?"

"Zen breaks down our false dichotomies."

"Like a guy walking and riding an ox at the same time?"

Marge nodded.

"That doesn't make any sense," I pointed out.

"What's sense?"

I stared at her. "What?"

"What does it mean to say that something makes 'sense'? What is it? Can you hold it? Can you name it?"

"It just means for something to be logical."

"What's logic?"

I was starting to get annoyed. "One plus one is two. If you're walking, you're most definitely not riding an ox."

"But you _are_ riding an ox, to the extent that you aren't. You can't have one without the other. Zen defies the fiction that is logic."

"Sounds like hippy nonsense."

Marge made a rude noise. "Says the slave to reason. Tie everything up in a nice bow. Case closed."

"I'm a detective. That's what we do."

"So you should know better than anyone that it's bullshit."

"I don't fake evidence." I got a little tired of everyone accusing cops of being dirty.

"Chill out, top cop. No one's accusing you of corruption. But don't you think sometimes that there's a little more gray than there is black-and-white?"

"And that's Zen?"

Marge hesitated. "No, zen is from _zazen_ , which refers to the practice of meditation. By meditating, a zen masters breaks down the barriers, so that he can see beyond the contradictions."

"And that's worth doing?"

Marge's eyes widened. "Of course it's worth doing. False contradictions are what get the world all screwed up."

"Then why don't you do this—instead of burning candles and dancing naked in fields?"

"It takes a lot of patience. I haven't got that kind of— _gentility_. And anyhow, the goddess doesn't care about contradictions. She _is_ contradictions. Sometimes, instead of erasing them, you've got to embrace them."

I nodded like I understood, when in fact I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked.

"For a case," I answered, without thinking.

Eyes flashing, she assumed a wounded tone. "Bringing your work here—"

"But look how you helped me. And you got to recite a pretty poem and everything."

"Don't be patronizing."

I smiled. "It _was_ a pretty poem."

"It wasn't just a poem. It expressed a deep, underlying truth."

"If everything contradicts everything else, how can there be any truth?"

Marge pursed her lips. "I think you're being sarcastic, but I'll let it go for the moment. Buddhism calls for compassion."

"So that's it? A Zen Buddhist just meditates?"

"They meditate and they contemplate these contradictions. They think about all of these scenarios that defy logical reasoning. It can't be taught. It can only be experienced—though that's probably not the right word. You're contemplating these paradoxes with no solution in sight, and no reason to think that you're making any progress, when suddenly, you get it, though that's _definitely_ the wrong way to put it. Anyway, you're suddenly on the brink, and limitations fall away."

"Then what?" There had to be more to it than that.

"That's it."

"That's it?"

Marge looked exasperated. "Well, you've just mastered the space-time continuum. It seems pretty significant to me."

"But what have you really done?"

"They said that some Zen masters could fly."

I guffawed.

"No, really," she said. "When you seek to recognize limitations, the universe can't stop you."

"If that were true, anyone could do it."

"Anyone _can_ do it."

"Sounds like bullshit," I shook my head.

"Just cuz _you_ can't see it—"

"I'm not trying to be rude—"

Marge made another rude sound.

I covered my heart with my right hand. "Seriously, I mean no disrespect. A person can believe what they want. But next, you're going to be telling me that you ride a broomstick."

A wicked smile crossed Marge's lips. "As a matter of fact—"

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"Death and birth." Mr. Kennyo Wada made a vague gesture in the air. "It's the way."

I grunted like I understood, when in fact I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

I wondered how much of Mr. Wada's speech pattern was an intentional effort to sound mysterious as opposed to a genuine lack of familiarity with English.

"Did you know Mr. Murota very well?" Nichols asked.

The memorial service was being held at a Zen Institute, one of those gorgeous spreads buried in a crook right off of the highway. Trees and gardens and perfect serenity a skip and a jump from the beltway. I had to admit that it was a little surreal, being led around the flowerbeds and marble benches by a Zen monk.

"Good benefactor," Mr. Wada replied.

Since Mr. Wada was affiliated with the Zen Institute, it seemed pretty obvious that Murota would've been _Mr. Wada's_ benefactor.

But it wasn't clear whether Mr. Wada was actually in charge of the place or just an appointed official, the way that some churches appointed ministers.

 _Were Zen monks even_ allowed _to own real estate?_

"Did you know his wife?"

Mr. Wada sighed. "Very sad. Very sad."

"How did Mr. Murota take her death?"

Mr. Wada opened his mouth to reply, then after a brief pause, sighed again. "Grief is an illusion."

Whatever I had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that.

Yet Nichols just took it in stride. "So Mr. Murota wasn't that upset?"

Mr. Wada shook his head. "Very upset."

"But you just said grief is an illusion," I reminded him.

He looked at me sadly. "Illusions are occasions for grief."

"Did Mr. Murota associate with anyone from the Institute?" Nichols asked, obviously trying to steer the conversation back onto course. "Did he have any friends here?"

Mr. Wada thought for a moment before answering.

"How close were they with Mr. Murota?" I asked, having copied down the names.

Mr. Wada hummed. "Dinner parties." He waved a hand, as if to dismiss something so frivolous. "They liked to tell scary stories. _Hyaku monogatari._ "

I shook my head.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Nichols asked.

" _Hyaku monogatari_. A game. They had dinner parties and told stories of ghosts."

"That's a game?"

Mr. Wada shrugged.

Nichols closed his notebook. "Well, thank you for talking to us."

"Can I ask you, what is Zen?" I gestured to his outfit. "Are you like a priest?"

Mr. Wada looked amused. "Not priest."

"What do you do then?"

" _I_ do nothing. I ask questions, maybe. I talk. If people want to talk to me, they can."

"So you give sermons?"

"I ask questions." He looked at me. "If you go on boat, who is moving, you or the boat?"

Catching on, I answered. "Both of us, me and the boat."

He nodded. "But if you do not know that. If you are looking at the shore?"

I thought about it. "It looks like the shore is moving, not me."

"So?"

I could tell that he thought that I should have understood something, but I was still in the dark.

He looked amused again. "Same with body-mind. You under misapprehension that you are moving. Only when you sit straight and look into yourself do you see that there is a difference."

I was still confused.

"Like moon on water. Moon is not wet. Water is not cut by moon. Light of moon is huge. Takes only small space in water. They share space in a single drop. Same for enlightenment. It does not tear man apart. But it does not stay. It goes away when the sun rises. That is why you must meditate again."

I still didn't understand, but I asked anyway. "And Mr. Murota, he did that? He meditated?"

Mr. Wada nodded.

"Was he any good at it?" I wondered.

Mr. Wada shrugged. "Too many scary stories."

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We had already talked to the cousins, corn-fed Iowa Christians in town for the memorial service. If they had seemed out of place in the lobby of a Best Western, they looked downright nervous here, amidst the simple furnishings of the spacious room where the memorial was being held. As if they were worried that God was going to reach down and thump them on the back of the head for daring to step foot into the house of another faith.

"It's not that we _object_ to this kind of a funeral," the matriarch had explained to me and Nichols the day before. "It's just not _our_ way."

Apparently, _their_ way meant ignoring the half-Japanese cousin until he was found murdered in an alley.

"He just wasn't like us," a younger cousin had pointed out.

Well, at least they had shown up for the memorial service, though it was clear that this might have been connected with some futile hopes connected to their cousin's last will and testament.

They put on a good show nevertheless, respectfully waiting until they were called up to the front to read out some Psalms. They went for some heavy verses too, really playing up the sympathy card.

When they were done, the Buddhists handed out little cards with a few lines in Japanese, and explained that they were going to chant. We could join in, were we so inclined.

I was not.

It wasn't that I had something against any of this. I just didn't get religion. I never had.

But Nichols was getting a kick out if it, I could tell, stumbling over the words as he tried to keep up with the lilting melody.

It was pretty. I had to give them that.

But I didn't like memorial services. I didn't like all of the displays of manufactured pain.

Not that there weren't moments of genuine pathos. More often than not, however, I couldn't help feeling that a memorial service was just a show that people were putting on because they were afraid of looking bad, of looking like they didn't give a damn, when the truth was that they got off on it, on the spectacle of it, so many of them coming just to see who was grieving and to be seen grieving, like it was a contest. Like—

She was there. On the other side of the room, a few rows back, sitting with her back ramrod straight, glancing up and down from her card, clearly trying to follow the chant, but only mouthing a few of the words.

Miss Isabella Spencer.

Miss _pareidolia-I-read-books-about-demons_ Spencer.

 _Now what the hell was she doing here?_

I sat there mulling that over—not liking the ideas that her presence was putting in my head—waiting for them to finish the chant, the last verse ending so neatly that it felt almost abrupt, the only stragglers being the Iowa cousins and Spencer.

We were invited up to light incense then. The smoke was supposed to help the departed, though Mr. Wada made a point of saying that the dead didn't really need our help. He left out the obvious—that it was simply a ritual to help the living process their grief.

I was surprised to see Spencer rise to her feet. Yet everyone was doing it—even the corn-fed Iowa Christian cousins.

When Nichols glanced at me, I shook my head. So he went up to light one of the sticks while I stayed in my seat, keeping an eye on the rest of the mourners.

If anyone had a guilty conscience, it wasn't enough to keep them from the line. I was the only one to abstain.

After the incense was lit, there was another round of chanting—just as pretty—before they let us all go.

I was almost disappointed by the way Spencer fled. But I wouldn't have caused a scene. Not at a memorial service.

I wasn't above using a memorial service to track down Murota's friends, however.

Unfortunately, two of them were missing, being out of town. But the third one was supposedly here, and I was lingering on the sidelines with Nichols waiting for one of Wada's assistants to track him down.

"It doesn't matter, you know. Whether or not you choose to burn the incense."

I took in the red-faced gentleman addressing himself to me. With his jolly features and rotund frame, he was a poor man's Santa Clause.

He was already shaking Nichols' hand, but his eyes were on me. "You don't like funerals?"

I made a conciliatory gesture. "Incense. Gives me a migraine."

"Sometimes we wall off the pain inside of ourselves. It makes us sick."

I raised my eyebrows.

"You seem very angry," he observed. "Did Mitsuhiro hurt you somehow?"

"We're detectives," I said, not interested in hearing the rest of his spiel.

His eyes widened. "That explains it then."

Nichols scoffed.

Ignoring him, Santa Clause held out a hand for me to shake. "Sheldon Baker."

The very gentleman for whom we were waiting.

Mr. Baker continued, "But Mitsuhiro called me Should-do. Everyone does."

Nichols scoffed again. "Should-do? Like _do or do not_?"

 _Should-do_ smiled weakly, shaking his hand.

"You know Mr. Murota well?" I asked.

Should-do's expression turned noncommittal. "We knew each other."

"I heard that you had dinner parties," Nichols observed.

"Pleasant conversation with friends."

"So you _were_ friends," I said.

Should-do, or whatever his name was, smiled. "I comforted Mitsuhiro after the passing of his wife."

"Heard it was pretty bad. She was really sick."

"It was very hard on Mitsuhiro. Our dinner parties were meant to cheer him up. We talked about books and art."

"Ghost stories, wasn't it?" I asked.

Should-do shrugged.

"Strange way of cheering someone up," I pushed him.

"Fear and hope are two sides of the same coin."

"If you say so."

"When you're hoping for something, you're fearing you won't get it. And when you're afraid of something, what you're really saying is that you're hoping it won't happen."

I was about to say that sounded like an oversimplification, but Nichols cut me off by asking for Should-do's whereabouts at the time of the murder.

Should-do's apparent shock at being asked such a question failed to mask his morbid pleasure at being the subject of just such a question. "I was having dinner with Andrew and Greg."

That would be Andrew Milton and Greg Hudson, the other two members of Murota's little clique, both of whom had missed the memorial service.

"Any reason Mr. Murota wasn't there that night?" Nichols asked.

"Oh, he was invited. We were expecting him—but he never arrived. The next day Mitsuhiro's office called Andrew and gave him the news." Something seemed to occur to Should-do then. "What'll happen to Mitsuhiro's estate? His pictures and books?"

"There's a will," I said.

"I know he had some relatives. But I don't think that he would've left anything of real value to them."

"That's for the lawyers," I said.

Should-do grimaced, but didn't argue.

"Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Mr. Murota?" I asked.

Should-do's grimace turned into a frown. "Why does anyone want to hurt anyone?"

"That's not an answer."

Should-do's eyes narrowed. "But if you hurt someone, aren't you hurting yourself? Why would you want to do that?"

"People do it all of the time. You'd be surprised."

"They're really hurting themselves though. If they would just think about it. If they realized how we're all connected."

"So you don't know of anyone who would want to hurt him?" Nichols asked, trying to nail an answer down.

Hesitating, Should-do looked conflicted. "If I named someone, wouldn't I be hurting him—or her?"

"If they're a killer—"

"It's not for me to judge. The universe—"

I interrupted. "It's called accessory after the fact and obstruction of justice. You could go to jail."

Should-do's mouth twisted. "Self-interest leads down a bad path."

"A perp walk is a pretty bad path."

"How would I know anything about Mitsuhiro's enemies?"

"You were his friend, weren't you?" Nichols asked.

"We just told ghost stories. That's all. We didn't really know each other."

"Let me put it to you another way," I said. "Do you know anyone who would stand to gain from his death."

"Gain?" Should-do seemed disturbed at the notion. "There's nothing to be gained from harming another person."

"You ever hear about anyone threatening Mr. Murota?" I asked, trying again.

Should-do shook his head. "Never."

"Ever hear him threaten anyone else? Or argue with anyone?"

"Threats are just ways to hide fear."

I was through with just about through with Should-do's word games. "Was Mr. Murota afraid of anyone?"

Should-do smiled. "The only thing Mitsuhiro feared was ghosts."

 **AN:**

 **Mr. Wada and Should-do are based on real people, and the Zen Institute is based on a real place. I encountered all three after the death of my mother, when I was going through a kind of spiritual crisis.**

 **I discuss the issue of ethnicity more fully in** ** _Book of Monsters_** **, but I'm worried about my portrayal of Mr. Wada in** ** _100 Ghost Stories_** **. I want to provide a faithful portrait of the man. Yet the line between authentic "difference" and "offensive stereotype" is harder to navigate in fiction than I'd expected.**

 **I'm less concerned about my portrayal of Should-do, because he was a tool and is meant to come off as such.**

 **As for Edward, his interest in Zen Buddhism should be interpreted (mostly) as an attempt to understand Bella's interest in the subject. He's actually an avid fan of martial art movies. But his knowledge of the culture is limited to the things he's picked up from movies. The white-splaining (via his cousin) is typical, I think, of how many Caucasians in America encounter non-Caucasian cultures, at least at first. And in my opinion, Edward's obtuseness is completely believable for an American with little to no exposure to Eastern religion/philosophy. He is meant to appear confused, not rude. I hope that I pulled that off.**

 **Mr. Wada's comments in this chapter are indeed pulled from literary sources (see below). His comments in** ** _Book of Monsters_** **are based on actual comments made by the man he's based on.**

"Empty-handed I go, and behold the spade is in my hand. I walk on foot, and yet on the back of an ox I am riding; When I pass over the bridge, Lo, the water floweth not, but the bridge doth flow." -Shan-hui 487-469

These passages are paraphrased in the above chapter:

"When you go out on a boat and look around, you feel as if the shore were moving. But if you fix your eyes on the rim of the boat, you become aware that the boat is moving. It is exactly the same when you try to know the objective world while in a state of confusion in regard to your own body and mind; you are under the misapprehension that your own mind, you own nature, is something real and enduring. Only when you sit straight and look into yourself, does it become clear that the objective world has a reality apart from you." – Hashida in Sources of Japanese Tradition vol 1

"Our attainment of enlightenment is something like the reflection of the moon in water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water cleft apart. Though the light of the moon is vast and immense, it finds a home in water only a foot long and an inch wide. The whole moon and the whole sky find room enough in a single dewdrop, a single drop of water And just as the moon does not cleave the water apart, so enlightenment does not tear man apart. Just as a dewdrop or drop of water offers no resistance to the moon in heaven, so man offers no obstacle to the full penetration of enlightenment. Height is always the measure of depth." – Hashida in Sources of Japanese Tradition vol 1

"To study the way of Buddha is to study your own self. To study your own self is to forget yourself. To forget yourself is to have the objective world prevail in you. To have the objective world prevail in you, is to let go of your 'own' body and mind as well as the body and mind of 'others.' The enlightenment thus attained may seem to come to an end, but though it appears to have stopped this momentary enlightenment should be prolonged and prolonged." – Hashida in Sources of Japanese Tradition vol 1

 **Thanks for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"Within life and death_

 _Snow falls ceaselessly."_ Santōka Taneda 39 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 5

"So," Nichols said, fidgeting with one of those stupid fidget spinners that had become so popular. "We gonna take another look at Spencer?"

I closed the file I had been skimming and tossed it over so that it landed on his desk. "Why would we?" I grabbed the report that Michaels had just dropped off.

"Pretty strange, her showing up at the memorial service. Don't you think?"

I shrugged. "Witnesses do that sometimes. They feel obligated."

"She seem like the kind of person who'd feel obligated?"

"How would I know?" I ran my eyes over the first few lines of the report. Suzu Akiyama's alibi for her brother-in-law's murder was rock solid. She was at a wine tasting with her father with about thirty other people.

And the Akiyama's bank records looked good. If they had hired someone to kill Mitsuhiro Murota, they weren't paying with cash.

"You two seem to have a rapport," Nichols said.

"What?" I glanced up at him.

"You and Spencer. You've got a rapport."

"I _told_ you. I interviewed her the night of the murder because you weren't there and I didn't know when you were gonna show up. I was trying to give you a break."

"And I appreciate it. But now there's this thing between the two of you."

"Thing?"

"Yeah a thing."

There was no way that I was stepping into that trap.

"Anyhow," he sighed. "Now there's this thing. So even if she had to something to tell us, no way she'd tell you."

"What—" I stopped, annoyed that I'd fallen for the bait. "Why're you saying that?"

He smirked. "You didn't see the way she was looking at you at the memorial. After the incense. She was _glaring_ at you like you were a world class asshole." He hitched a shoulder. "Which you are of course. But she doesn't know the half of it."

 _She was glaring at me?_ Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone took a disliking to me.

Nichols dropped the fidget spinner and picked up the file I'd tossed his way. "Should we call her into the station or go to her place?"

"Why would we want to talk to her again?"

" _I_ 'm gonna do the talking. After the way she looked at you, you're not gonna get anywhere with her. You can stand there and look pretty while I ask the questions."

"What questions?"

Nichols looked up from his file. "Like what she was doing at the memorial service, for instance."

"That it?"

"There're still those discrepancies in her timeline."

"She was drunk. And tired."

"You defending her now?"

 _Was_ I defending her?

No, I just didn't want us wasting our time on a dead end.

"We've got a mountain of financial records to get through," I reminded him. "You wanna blow overtime on dead ends, be my guest. But there's no evidence of a connection between her and Murota."

"Maybe there is a connection and we just haven't figured it out yet. Maybe she knows something and doesn't even realize it. She just needs someone to ask nicely."

I bristled at the insinuation—like I'd somehow screwed up. "Go ahead. Talk to her. See if you can get some sense out of her."

But even as I said the words, I knew they weren't sincere. For some reason, I didn't want Nichols talking to her.

I told myself that it was just the implication that I'd screwed up. That he was a better detective.

"Just don't ask me for you to cover for you when we're still behind on the files," I said.

"You really think the murder is related to Murota's business?"

I nodded. "Going after Spencer again isn't going to get us anywhere. And we're already swimming upstream."

"Is that it? You're worried about the case?" Nichols asked.

"Of course. What else could it be?"

He shrugged. "You tell me. Spencer's your witness."

"She's _not_ my witness," I said, beginning to really lose my patience.

"If you say so."

"I've already said so. You're just not listening."

Nichols narrowed his eyes at me. "She getting under your skin bro?"

"Yeah, she's getting under my skin. She's screwing up our case."

"There's always someone trying to screw up our case. Like that Baker guy. He was either stonewallin' us or he's got a screw loose. But it seems like Isabella Spencer's got you especially riled."

Nichols was full of crap. I wasn't riled.

And if I _was_ riled, it was because he was looking for a fight.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked. "A woman like her, getting mixed up in something like this?"

"A woman like her?" Nichols' forehead creased.

"No record. Good job. Going to school. She has her whole life ahead of her."

"You just said there was nothing suspicious about her. You said we didn't need to take another look. You changed your mind about that?"

"No. She's got nothing to do with the murder." The words just came out of my mouth. I had no idea why.

I cast about for an explanation, an excuse. Anything.

"She has nothing to do with this," I said again, unable to come up with a reasonable justification for my aversion to involving Spencer again. "That's just it. It's like she went looking for trouble."

"She found a body. Could happen to anyone."

"She didn't just find a body. She was walking down a dark alley behind a subway station. Who does something that stupid?"

Nichols made a derogatory noise. "People doing stupid things is nine-tenths of our business."

"But she's not dumb. The way she talks—she's not exactly an idiot."

"Book smarts ain't street smarts. You know that."

"That's the problem. She's _bored_. She's got too much time on her hands. _That_ 's why she was in that alley and _that_ 's why she was at the memorial service. She's bored and she thinks this is just a game."

Nichols thought for a minute. "So all of this—" He gestured at me. "It's just you being annoyed at some hanger-on?"

I nodded.

It _felt_ true anyhow.

Otherwise, it just didn't make any sense—

The _aggravation_ I felt whenever Isabella Spencer's name came up.

He sighed. "Alright then, I'll take your word for it." He glanced at the stack of files on his desk. "I kind of wish it _was_ her though. Would probably make it a hell of a lot easier."

I huffed, because he was right.

The forensic accountants weren't getting very far with Murota's records. There were a few deals that looked a little shady, but it was hard to pin down any evidence of wrongdoing. Some real estate had gone back and forth, the seller rebuying property at a slight loss, which might have been nothing. Or it might have been money laundering. It was hard to tell.

The parties involved were all more or less legit. Well, as legit as shifty real estate developers can be.

Nichols and I were paying them visits one by one, just to sus them out. So far they'd all been unanimous in their praise for Murota.

He was apparently a hell of a guy.

And no one had any idea who would've wanted to hurt him.

We were waiting on the organized crime unit to tell us whether any of our guys raised a red flag.

On a lark, I'd asked Keller to see what he could dig up on the Zen Institute and Wada. I had no reason to be suspicious. I just wanted to make sure everything was on the up and up.

In the meantime, we had checked into Murota's other two friends from the Zen Institute: Greg Hudson, a small claims lawyer, and Andrew Milton, a contractor, both of whom had missed the memorial service. (Prior commitments. Couldn't be helped.) Both had a clean record. Both had no idea who might've had a grudge against Murota. And both confirmed Should-do's story about their whereabouts at the time of Murota's murder. They were all having dinner together.

"Do you know what Mr. Murota was doing in Silver Spring at that time of night?" I asked Milton.

He didn't seem to like the question, an uneasy expression passing over his face.

But then, he had looked anxious from the minute we walked in the door.

"I wish that I could help you," he said. "But I don't know anything about Mitsuhiro's business."

Hudson had said the same thing. Instead of looking anxious though, he'd looked mournful. Melancholy even. More so than you would've expected given the passing of his friend.

I wasn't buying the plea of ignorance regarding Murota's business, especially on Milton's part. "That's a little strange, don't you think? He sold real estate. You're a contractor. He never tried to steer any work in your direction?"

"I got a few jobs, yes. But he just gave people my name. That was it. A favor for a friend."

"And no one ever complained to you about jobs running over? No one ever complained that Mr. Murota had sold them a piece of real estate that was going to cost more to fix up than they'd been led to believe?" Nichols asked.

Milton frowned. "It's real estate. People get screwed. It's the way it works."

"But you just said you didn't know anyone who held a grudge."

"Not enough to want to actually kill him."

"And Mitsuhiro never talked about business with you?"

"I just told you that I don't know anything his business."

"You seem anxious," I pointed out. "Any reason?"

Milton grimaced. "My friend was just murdered. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Especially after the death of his wife," Nichols said. "Pretty tragic."

"It _was_ tragic," Milton said.

"We heard her death was hard on Mr. Murota."

"You have no idea."

I decided to give it one last try. "If you think of anything—"

"I'll call you," Milton confirmed.

Two days later, Milton was dead.

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I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Which was stupid really, because _of course_. Of course she would be right in the middle of it.

Isabella Spencer was sitting on a bench in a perfectly manicured garden. Behind her, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed crime scene investigators scurrying around a body.

Spencer had just happened to stumble across Andrew Milton's corpse in a corner of the meditation room at the Zen Institute. He had been lying on top of her purse.

"I could arrest you," I warned her, marching over to meet her.

She rose to her feet, a worried expression on her face, but she was clearly trying to play it cool. "For what?"

Nichols was standing off to the side, not saying a damn word, his hands stuck in his pockets like he was just an interested passerby taking a gander at a six car pile-up.

"Obstructing an investigation," I said, very close to losing my temper.

"I'm not obstructing anything."

 _Bullshit_. According to Spencer, she had left her purse at the Institute earlier that day, having attended one of the meditation sessions. _A session she had no business attending._ She had driven away, only getting a few miles before she realized that she had forgotten her purse. And a traffic camera had caught her picture as she did a u-turn—she had seen the flash. ( _Convenient, wasn't that?_ ) She had found the body when she came back.

"How well did you know Andrew Milton?" I asked.

"Who?"

Was she really going to play dumb?

"You just found his dead body."

"I've never seen him before."

She seemed sincere. But—

"He was at the memorial service," I lied, wondering if the information would prompt her to change her story.

A shadow crossed over her face. "I didn't see him. Or at least I don't remember."

"You should start taking this seriously," I warned her, because she was still treating this like it was some sort of a game.

"I am," she said, her tone annoyed as she knocked a bee away.

I glared at her. "Don't you think it's strange that you happen to stumble across two bodies?" Two bodies—one killer. At least, that was what the ME was saying. It looked as if Milton had been killed using the same knife that was used on Murota, though the ME would have to do an autopsy to be sure.

Then something occurred to me. "How many women are there at the Zen Institute?"

"How should I know?" Spencer asked, clearly missing the point.

"The killer chose _your_ purse. You're being targeted."

Her eyes widened as she caught on to my suggestion, but they narrowed again as she thought about it some more. "Which is it? Either I'm setting myself up as a target or I'm inserting myself into the investigation. I can't be doing both."

"You're doing both."

She opened her mouth, obviously intending to argue with me, but stopped herself.

I couldn't tell what was running through her mind, but whatever she had been thinking of saying, she decided to go for defiant in the end. Her chin out, she said that she didn't have anything else to say.

I thought about arresting her. I _wanted_ to arrest her. She was just so fucking aggravating. That fucking defensiveness of hers on full display, like she'd done nothing wrong, when in fact she was either an idiot or running a con.

She didn't look like an idiot.

She still had those innocent, farm-girl looks going for her, though. Like she'd just been plucked off of a Minnesota farm and plopped down in the big bad metropolis.

No way was she really that fucking simple.

But a groundskeeper had confirmed her story about leaving the Institute, then coming back. And Milton had been wearing some fancy pulse monitor that told us the exact time of death. It was synced to a satellite and there was no way of faking it without involving some Russian hackers. So as of right now, it looked like Spencer was off of the hook, especially if we could confirm her story about the traffic camera.

I _could_ have arrested her. But even if I could have held her on obstruction, the charges probably wouldn't stick.

I looked at Nichols. He shook his head.

"You can go," I said. "But try not to find any more bodies."

Spencer seemed surprised by the fact that I was letting her leave. "I need my wallet at least."

Heaven forbid she break the law by driving without a license twice in one day I supposed.

I told her that she could have license and her bank cards—and yes, her student id—but we were keeping the rest of the contents of her purse, at least for now. And I could tell that she wanted to argue with me, but whatever she wanted to say, she let it go.

"I would think real hard about whether you want to come back to the Institute," I said as she was turning away.

She just pursed her lips, and wasted no time crossing the parking lot to get back into her car.

"Still think she's not involved?" Nichols asked, watching her peel out of the lot.

I deemed it best not to reply.

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"He and Murota had similar tastes," Sanders observed.

I had to agree. Milton's living room was decorated with the same sort of artwork we'd found at Murota's. Disturbing images that looked like they'd come straight out of a nightmare.

I especially disliked the print over the sofa. The samurai-looking fellow in the center was trying to fend off a legion of snakes, the creatures wound around his arms and neck—even his sword—while demon-looking creatures looked on from the sides and two ghostly apparitions hovered in the air.

"This one's taken it pretty calmly," Nichols said. He was staring at another samurai-looking fellow chilling on a bench, barely reacting to the spectacle of six apparitions.

"Wada said they liked ghost stories," I reminded him, spying a print of party-goers scurrying across a verandah, trying to escape an onslaught of demons or maybe ghosts. The picture looked familiar, but I didn't know if that was because Murota had a copy of the exact same picture or just a similar print.

"You think that Spencer woman likes ghost stories too?" Nichols asked.

 **AN:**

 **The paintings in order are Utagawa Kuniyoshi's** ** _The Spirit of Sakura Sōgorō Haunting Hotta Kōzuke,_** **Utagawa Yoshitaki's** ** _The Actor Nakamura Sōjūrō as Mitsukuni_** **, and Katsushika Hokusai's** ** _New Version of a Perspective Print: Haunted House._**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"The nameless weed_

 _Blooms all at once—purple."_ Santōka Taneda 240 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 6

"It shouldn't have happened there," Hudson said, drawing a hand over his face. "Not at the Institute."

We were in Hudson's living room, questioning him about Milton's murder the previous afternoon. His place was decorated like Murota's and Milton's, with nightmare prints on every wall, including the one from Milton's house, the picture of party-goers scurrying across a verandah, trying to escape an onslaught of demons-cum-ghosts.

It occurred to me that looking at pictures like this might've had more than a little to do Hudson's morbid disposition.

"Strange that you put it that," Nichols said. "Was Mr. Milton worried that someone wanted to hurt him?"

Hudson dropped his hand and gazed at Nichols, looking conflicted. "No, why would he be? It's just— The Institute doesn't have anything to do with it."

"With what?"

"With that sort of thing." Hudson shook his head. "I started going there to get away from that sort of thing."

"Murder?"

Hudson looked surprised. "Away from the world. I started going to the Institute to get _away from the world_."

"How's that working out for you?" I asked. "This is the second death in a few weeks. Seems like the Institute has a few problems."

"That hasn't anything to do with the Institute."

"How d'you know?"

Hudson's face hardened. "It just couldn't be."

"But it's too much of a coincidence, don't you think? The killer has to be someone who knows the Institute."

"Maybe Andrew took him there to find help."

"Help? Like of the spiritual variety?"

"Why not? Santōka Taneda was going to kill himself, you know. His mother had killed herself, and he was trying to follow in her footsteps. He was pulled from a set of train tracks and brought to a Zen temple. He became a priest. It saved his life."

"So you think that Mr. Milton knew who murdered Mr. Murota? And that Milton was trying to help him? And got murdered for his trouble?"

"How should I know? I don't know anything. I'm just guessing."

"When was the last time you went to the Institute?" Nichols asked, changing tack.

"I was there yesterday. Before—"

"But you didn't see Mr. Milton?"

Hudson's eyes dropped. "He wasn't at the session."

"Was that weird? Was he usually there for that?"

"I don't know. I haven't been attending sessions lately."

"Why not?"

"I've been very busy."

"Mr. Milton seems to have been skipping as well."

"So?"

"Are you trying to avoid someone? Is that why you haven't been going?"

Hudson passed a hand over his face again. "I'm not trying to avoid anyone. I've just been busy."

"Do you know of anyone at the Institute who might've held a grudge against Mr. Milton?"

"I don't know them very well. I couldn't say."

"Except for Sheldon Baker," I said. "And Mr. Milton and Mr. Murota."

Hudson glanced at me wearily. "Except for them."

"How were things between Mr. Baker and the rest of you?"

"I was having lunch with Should-do— _Sheldon_ —yesterday," Hudson said. "When— _it_ happened. We left the Institute at the same time and drove here. I can prove it. I stopped for gas on the way. The charge'll be on my credit card. Should-do was already here when I arrived." Anticipating our questions, Hudson continued. "We couldn't have been speeding. There're traffic cameras all up and down the road out of the Institute. And we were here all afternoon."

"Telling more ghost stories?"

Hudson looked slightly ill. "I never liked that game."

Nichols cleared his throat. "What about Isabella Spencer?"

"Who?" Hudson was clearly confused.

"She was at the Institute yesterday, wasn't she?"

"There was a woman. I can't remember what she said her name was. Why're you asking me about her?"

Nichols ignored the question, asking one of his own instead. "She new to the Institute?"

"I suppose so. We don't get a lot of women."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Why would a woman want to hang out with a bunch of men talking about philosophy? Especially a pretty young thing like that."

"So it's strange, her being there?"

"People come and go all of the time. They stay for a few sessions and then leave when they decide it's not for them."

"Did Mr. Murota or Mr. Milton ever mention her?"

"Not that I know of. But Should-do might know something. He goes more often than I do."

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"Come on back. I'm in the back."

Sheldon Baker—aka, _Should-do_ —was peeking at Nichols and me over a high garden gate.

"Come on," he said, swinging the gate open for us.

"This must take a lot of work," Nichols observed, taking in all of the greenery.

It was a veritable jungle, leafy specimens of all types crowding around a maze-like lawn. The only thing that I could recognize was bamboo, set in wooden planters.

"You can't plant them in the ground," Should-do explained, noticing my gaze. "Otherwise they'll take over."

He had obviously been working on a corner close by a set of French doors, the freshly tilled earth sparkling bright black. Two lawn refuse bags stood by the trash cans, the tops folded neatly over for pick-up.

"What are you doing here?" Nichols asked.

"Just getting rid of some weeds," Should-do replied, wiping his hands on a rag before reaching for the French doors to invite us inside.

And by this point I probably shouldn't be surprised, but I still do a double-take when I catch a glimpse of the grim portrait on the wall, an ugly, bearded troll of a man grappling with a young woman, a veritable beauty and the beast.

The other artwork followed the same lines, all of it reminiscent of the images that were so popular with the other members of the little clique.

The other artwork followed the same lines, all of it reminiscent of the images that were so popular with the other members of the little clique. The print over the table was particularly familiar, men cowering from demonic-looking creatures, trapped on a verandah. I realized that I had seen it before. Milton, Hudson and Murota each had a copy.

While Should-do was still in the other room, I quickly pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of the picture, ignoring Nichol's quizzical look.

"I see that you have noticed my collection," Should-do said, coming back into the room. If he had noticed me taking a picture, he didn't seem to mind.

"Seems to be a thing with you and your friends," I said, pointing to the image hanging in all four living rooms.

"The people in the picture are playing _hyaku monogatari,_ " Should-do explained.

"That some kind of game?"

Should-do smiled indulgently. "A game of ghost stories. The players tell one story after another. The first player to lose his nerve is the loser."

"Strange game," Nichols observed.

Should-do shrugged.

"Who won?" Nichols asked.

"It varied. But I am undefeated."

I thought that sounded a little farfetched. "You're telling me that grown men are afraid of ghosts?"

Should-do eyed me. "Aren't you afraid of anything, detective?"

"Not ghosts."

He smirked. "How do you know? Have you ever seen one?"

While I was gaping at that, Nichols jumped in. "Is that what you were doing? Séances and EVP?"

Should-do's smirk fell. "We told stories and discussed art."

"Any of it worth anything? The art, I mean."

"They're mostly copies. And we weren't interested in their financial value, anyway."

"What _were_ you interested in?" I asked, recalling Should-do's question about Murota's estate. If he thought that he could get his hands on his friends' art, that would be a motive.

"The pictures are illustrations of stories." Should-do gestured to the image that had first caught my eye. "This one is my favorite though. Kawanabe Gyōsai's _Shōki and the Courtesan_. The Beast and the Beauty."

"A love story?"

Should-do scoffed. "Shōki was a demon queller, from China."

"They have demons in Asia?" I asked, noticing that the Shōki in question appeared in several images around the room, an irritable, brutal-looking fellow brandishing a sword and facing off against one impish creature after another.

"They're called _oni_ in Japanese."

"And what? They try to steal men's souls or something?"

"They just show one side of man's nature."

"So, not necessarily evil?"

"See here?" Should-do pointed out a pen and ink drawing of a troll-like creature crouching next to what looked like a stick of incense. "Meditation even calms the spirit of a demon."

He pointed to another print. "This one is a priest."

The creature in the latter image didn't look at all like a priest to me, the exaggerated features that of a fiend.

"Or is he only feigning?" Should-do asked. "Is he trying to trick believers into giving charity to a corrupt purpose?"

When neither Nichols nor I replied, Should-do looked at us and scowled.

"Well which is it?" he asked.

"My experience is that genuine redemption is rare," Nichols said.

"The answer I would expect from a policeman," Should-do said, nodding. "And a policeman is really a guardian of morality, isn't he? Like a priest."

I started to object, but Nichols beat me to it.

"I don't determine right and wrong, I just enforce the law."

"And the law is the way. Or it should be. It _would_ be, if men were less corrupt. So you _would_ be priests." He scratched his beard. "Or would you be vassals to some lord. Which is it?"

"Cops are just people," I said, "like everyone else." I should've just let it go. I wasn't interested in getting into some debate over police brutality or the militarized state. But it grated—this moralizing from a guy who probably sat in an office every day, especially in light of the evidence about Murota's shady business dealings and Milton's obvious lies and Hudson's less obvious cowardice. And while it wasn't the same thing, I couldn't help recalling the suspicion in Isabella Spencer's eyes, the way she held herself around me, like she was just waiting for me to take a swing.

A gleam came into Should-do's eyes. " _Tengu_ were once people too." He licked his lips. "But they were corrupt. They come back as ghosts and impersonate people. Even priests. They lead people from the path."

"Another ghost story?" Nichols asked, playing along for some reason.

"Some ghost stories are true."

"They're based on the idea of justice," Nichols said, still playing along. "A ghost just wants vengeance for some wrong."

Should-do smirked. "See, you are more like priests than you realize. Like demon quellers."

I thought this had gone far enough, but Nichols was nodding, like it made perfect sense. "I've seen some crazy things, that's for sure."

"Then you know—" Should-do paused.

"Know what?"

"How some people can be possessed by a demon and not even realize it."

Nichols stared at him for a minute. "Have you met many people like that?"

"Oh, they're everywhere."

"How do you recognize them?"

"They try to do zazen—to meditate—but they can't. That's a sign.

"And what do you do when you meet them?" Nichols asked.

Should-do scratched his beard again, and it struck me how much he resembled the pictures on the wall of Shōki, the demon queller. Like he was intentionally cultivating the resemblance.

"What would I do?" Should-do asked. "I'm just a man." Then he was glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "Or am I more than a man? Maybe I'm just crazy. How would you know? Maybe I'm just telling you stories, stories like the ones I used to tell Mitsuhiro and Andrew. But why would grown men fall for stories like that?"

Nichols opened his mouth to reply and shut it again, like he was struggling to come up with just how to respond.

"It's not a good idea to waste our time," I warned Should-do.

"Wasting your time?" His eyes widened, as if he was truly surprised.

"Two of your friends are dead," I reminded him.

He grimaced. "I'll miss them."

"Then why not help us try to find the killers?"

"Unless you think it was a demon," Nichols added, sarcastically.

Should-do had the grace to look repentant. "I don't know how I can help, but I will."

We ran through the same questions we had asked Hudson. Their stories matched, except that Should-do knew Spencer. He'd even spoken to her a few times.

"You think she has something to do with all of this?" Should-do asked.

I shrugged. If he knew about Spencer finding the bodies, he was playing dumb.

"We're investigating every avenue," Nichols said. "Do you have a reason to think she might be involved?"

"She has an angry spirit," Should-do said. "Violence is drawn to her."

 **AN:**

 **The pictures in order of appearance are Kawanabe Gyōsai's** ** _Shōki and the Courtesan_** **, Katsushika Hokusai's** ** _New Version of a Perspective Print: Haunted House_** **, Shunsō's** ** _Oni in Zazen_** **, and Anonymous painting of** ** _Oni as an Itinerant Priest._**

 **My discussion of Japanese demonology was pulled from** ** _Japanese Ghosts & Demons: Art of the Supernatural, _****edited by Stephen Addiss.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"The cawing crows,_

 _The flying crows,_

 _Have no place to settle down."_ Santōka Taneda 177 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 7

I knew it was wrong. But I was just trying to fix my screw-up.

Which is bullshit. Because going about it this way would just screw it up even more if I was wrong.

I _had_ to know.

The traffic camera confirmed Isabella Spencer's story about being several miles away from the Zen Institute at the time of the murder.

It was a relief, but only because Nichols was still going around calling her _my_ witness. If she really was mixed up in all of this, it was going to be my ass in the frying pan.

That was my story and I was sticking to it. She was a witness. That was all. It wasn't like I was worried about her, not beyond the fact that the murderer was obviously targeting her. I certainly wasn't trying to cover for her.

If anything, I probably should've been disappointed that the camera backed up her story. We were still running up against a wall when it came to nailing down any solid leads.

So far the Zen Institute looked like it was on the up and up. Wada lived off of donations. But Simmons was digging a little deeper into the financials. It was a lot of manpower to throw at a case, but the higher-ups wanted to get something to pin to Murota's less savory associates and an initial glance at Milton's records suggested that he was more heavily involved in Murota's dubious real estate deals than Murota's records had indicated.

We had a sit-down with a few detectives from the gang task force, just to make sure that we were crossing all of our t's and dotting all of our i's. We were concentrating on the real estate connection, but the Institute itself wasn't out of the woods yet.

Cue Daniels asking a question about the place being a cult, and Makimura looking at him like he was the biggest asshole in the world.

Daniels held up his hands. "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to offend. I didn't know that you were one of them."

"I'm not _one_ of them," Makimura corrected.

"I thought you were Buddhist," Nichols said, which surprised me, because I'd never given it any thought. I knew Makimura was Japanese, but that was about all that I knew about him.

"Nichiren Shoshu. There's a difference."

"So what _is_ Zen then?" Daniels asked,

"It's not religion. It's not philosophy. But it's also not _not_ religion and not _not_ philosophy."

"That clears up a lot, thanks," Daniels said sarcastically.

"Glad I could help."

And because Makimura hadn't apparently reached his quota on dumb assholes that day, I just had to ask another question. "D'you think it's kind of weird that so many non-Asians are going to this Institute?"

Makimura looked at me.

I tried to clarify. "I just mean, if this place really is a front, then it's not 'in the family,' so to speak, unless all the non-Asians is just a cover. Are there any rules about it? Is it considered offensive or something?"

"Would you be offended by an Asian in a Christian church?"

"I don't go to church." But I knew that wasn't exactly answering his question. "No, I wouldn't be offended."

"Then who cares?" Makimura shrugged. "But I had a great-aunt who used to get confused. Thought they were coming to send her back to Manzanar. She was older, you know."

I nodded.

"Just don't come at me with that motorcycle book and we'll be good," Makimura said.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded again.

But he hadn't really answered my actual question, a question I wasn't bold enough to put into words because I didn't want to around any suspicions: _What the hell was Spencer doing at the Zen Institute?_

If it turned out that the mob was really involved in this case, there'd be a lot riding on Spencer's testimony. I couldn't afford to let her blow it. And if I thought it was hard to believe that her newfound interest in Zen Buddhism was just a coincidence, then the defense was going to think it was downright nefarious.

Speaking of coincidences, there was another issue. Her purse was still being kept in evidence, but one item in particular had struck my interest: A moleskin notebook filled with little incidents, various coincidences that Spencer had recorded, with dates. In each case, the strange confluence of circumstances somehow struck Spencer as significant, in large part, it seemed, simply because they _were_ coincidences. Stupid stuff that no one else would've thought twice about, like thinking about a person two seconds before he called her, or hearing the name of the same old movie over and over again in a day.

It would've been neither here nor there—a weird thing to keep track of, but whatever—except that the first page of the notebook identified it as _Memoirs to Prove the Non-Existence of the World._

Nichols had apparently missed it. He had glanced at the notebook, but didn't bother to really go through it, taking me at my word that it was just a day planner. There weren't any entries for the days we were interested in, so it didn't really matter.

Except insofar as it suggested that Spencer wasn't exactly operating on the same wavelength as the rest of us.

I should've come clean. I should've told Nichols that I was worried about Spencer.

But he kept calling her _my_ witness, like I was responsible for her somehow. And the truth was that I did feel a little responsible, even though it was at least partly his fault that my interactions with her up that point weren't completely by the book.

I was still hoping it was nothing. That I was blowing everything out of proportion. That I'd been right to tell Nichols that there was nothing to worry about when it came to her.

If I was wrong—if Spencer turned out to be a problem—it would be Nichols' neck on the chopping block right alongside mine.

So I decided to keep my mouth shut, at least for the time being. And I decided to check up on her myself.

I knew it was wrong. But I was just trying to fix my screw-up.

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"Whaddya want?"

I scanned the woman's face. There was a vague resemblance to Spencer, in the round curves and the blond hair. But she was shorter and heavier. And older.

 _Spencer's mother?_

"I'm looking for Isabella Spencer," I said, deciding to go for friendly detective. If the woman was anything like Spencer, my usual crusty routine wasn't going to get me anywhere. "This is her apartment isn't it?"

The woman in question was clinging to the door for dear life, like it was holding her up. Which it probably was. She looked hammered.

"Wha you wan her for?" she slurred.

"She's helping me with a case."

"A case?" she peered at me, swaying slightly.

I flashed her my badge, trying to look congenial and wholesome, or as congenial and wholesome as possible for a person with my temperament.

And a change seemed to come over the woman in front of me. Straightening up as much as she could, she looked me up and down, half-smiling. Whatever Spencer had against cops didn't seem to be genetic.

"You're an off'ser?" she asked.

I nodded. "And you are?"

She scowled. "Izzy's my daughter. She do somefin wrong?"

"No, no. She's helping me."

"She speedin agin?"

I smiled. Spencer's disregard for traffic codes was apparently no secret. "She's not in trouble. I just want to ask her some questions."

"She's not here."

"Well maybe you can help me."

"Me?" The woman blinked at me, then grinned slowly. "Alrigh, you can come in. But when Izzy gets home I need her to take me to the bank. You gotta go then."

"I won't take long," I assured her.

She let me through the door. I was surprised to find the living room filled with half-unpacked boxes, like Spencer was just moving in or moving out. But the lease said she'd already been here a couple of months.

"Are you moving in with Isabella?" I asked.

The woman scoffed. "This ain't my crap. Izzy's just a slob." She kicked at a box. "I been goin through it, though. Just to make sure she didn't steal anything."

I quirked an eyebrow. "You think she might have stolen something."

"Girl's a brat. Always stealing from me." She flopped down into a dining room chair. "Think she's so much better'n me just cuz she has a degree. I tried college, you know. You try finishin with a brat cryin all the time cuz you're not payin her nuf attention and an alcoholic for a husband."

"Has she been helping you out?" I asked, taking the other dining room chair. The sofa was covered with clutter.

She sat up straighter. "Everything Izzy has, she has cuz I gave it to her. I worked my ass off for that girl."

I wasn't sure what to do with that, so I took it as a confirmation that Spencer was, in fact, supporting her mother financially. "How's she been doing lately?"

"Whaddaya mean?" She eyed me suspiciously.

"Has she seemed nervous or upset?"

"Izzy's always nervous and upset. It's what she does. How's it any of your business?"

"I'm just worried that this case she's helping us with might be getting to her."

"What's that case again?"

I changed the subject. "Has she mentioned anyone hanging around her lately? Anyone that seemed like they might not have her best interest in mind?"

She hissed. "Izzy's only thinks of one thing. Herself."

"So no strange men? Or women?"

"She's not special nuf to be a lesbian."

I chose to ignore that. " _Did_ she actually steal anything?"

"Wha—?"

"Did you find anything that she might have stolen?"

Spencer's mother glanced around the room. "Somma dose books're mine, I think. I don't know why she wants them anyhow. She's always makin fun a me, like she's so smart."

"It's a serious charge, accusing someone of stealing. Do you want to file a complaint?"

A nasty gleam came into her eye, but then she seemed to reconsider. "I spose if she gives em back it doesn't matter. She should just _ask_ next time."

"Has she ever stolen from anyone else?"

"Prolly. If you're gonna steal from your own mother, who _won't_ you steal from?"

I shrugged.

"I wish Izzy would get home already," Spencer's mother complained.

"Do you expect her soon?"

"How would I know?"

"Do you want to call her?"

Spencer's mother cocked her head to the side, thinking. "Yeah. Yeah, that's wha I should do." She pushed herself to her feet. "My phone's in the bedroom."

She stumbled out of the room.

I seized the opportunity to do a quick search. I didn't expect to find anything incriminating, but I thought it was worth a try.

Spencer easily owned—or had _borrowed_ —more books than I'd ever seen in a normal person's house, by which I meant someone who wasn't "rich." I'd worked a couple of cases involving more well-to-do types with fancy libraries well-stocked with gleaming hardbacks. But none of them looked as well used as the books in Spencer's apartment. Spencer—or someone else—had read these books, good and hard.

When a full ten minutes had passed with no sign of Spencer's mother, I ventured down the hallway. She had the television blaring, but a glance through the door showed that she was passed out on the bed.

So I did what any other cop in my position would've done. I searched the fuck out of that apartment. Nothing that wasn't in plain sight would be admissible, but I wasn't above checking a few drawers and shaking out a few books. And I hit pay-dirt when I came across a stash of diaries at the bottom of one of the boxes.

At first it seemed petty, stream of conscious bullshit. The kind of angst-ridden, OCD drivel that I should've expected after everything I'd learned about Spencer.

 _So I went out to eat with some girls from work and it was nice, but I had to stop myself from laughing too hard, from frowning too much, from crying. I was so hungry too, so voraciously hungry, I drank a liter of water just to quell my appetite. Then, on the way back, we stopped at a sidewalk sale and I purchased a pair of antique ice skates, perfect little knives on the edges (not that I need them, but I_ like _them, a hoarder, just like V said)._

I glanced around the living room. Yeah, Spencer was a hoarder alright.

But then it started to get more serious.

 _It was a good day, a good day I say, but what does it matter?_

 _I HAVE SOMETHING TO DO THIS WEEKEND I want to scream, but why, why should I have to? Am I so broken that something this trivial really matters?_

I supposed that it shouldn't have been surprising that Spencer had struggled with depression—and this was clearly depression. But to have it so boldly spelled out like that—

Was she still depressed? Was that the reason she was keeping that notebook of coincidences? Was that why she was going to the Zen Institute?

Was that the reason she was taking dumb chances, like walking down dark alleys behind subways.

 _And despite it all, I still can't help thinking, on an endless loop, how I want never to see V and J again, how I wish that I didn't have to share an office with V, how I wish that I never had to walk past J's door again._

 _And the next time someone asks me what happened on that island with them, I'll say I WAS SICK OF THEM AND I WAS SICK OF ME AND I WAS SICK._

This reference to an island had me wondering. There was no mention of any islands in connection with Murota and Milton.

But Spencer's supervisor had mentioned Spencer going on a vacation to the Caribbean with her coworkers, Veema and Jack—obviously V and J.

What had actually happened on that island?

 _then i thought i could breathe and then it would be all right and there was something in that, which is why i can write now but i'm so broken i can never be fixed and the one thing i thought was good, is in fact, i suspect, not._

I shook my head, wondering how a person who felt like that could even function. Like how did Spencer get up and go to work every day and go to school? And her supervisor had said she was such a good employee.

A good employee, except for the bullshit with Veema and Jack.

 _he never comes anymore and i know it's because she's told him not to, with that tone of voice, probably said i haven't a right to have him come, as though i would want him to, and i had a dream days ago—that i didn't write down because i was banishing such thoughts—in which she reported that i wasn't working, when really she's the one guilty of this, doing her statistics homework at her desk. And who is she to laugh on the phone and make plans and who is he to judge me or anyone? Her pants rustle when she walks and when she isn't walking she's sighing and clearing her throat and tapping the floor. And my horoscope says i'd better enjoy things now because it's all going downhill after the 21_ _st_ _. Never mind that i spilled tea on myself and stood there, looking down at the stain. Ground-watcher me, but i'd trip otherwise, i walked like that into work today, eyes cast down to take in little piles of dirt scratched up by ants, which maintenance is sure to take action against. i remember J saying once that he would gather up all of the ant bodies and leave them on my desk, but i don't remember why. A bird hopped ahead of me towards the entrance. And now V's turned on the radio—rock and roll—far louder than it need be, when my own music (Classical) is so low, and I have no choice but turn it up or else drive a pencil through my ear drums._

I was flipping through the pages, looking for something to explain just what had happened on that island. There were only a few references here and there.

An ominous passage about pink fluffy handcuffs.

I should've been going through the later diaries more carefully, making sure that there weren't any details related to the murders. But a quick read through had me believing that she'd stopped updating the diary at some point.

Was it because she wasn't depressed anymore?

I grabbed an earlier diary, hoping to find some passages about Veema and Jack. It didn't have anything to do with my investigation—I didn't _think_ that it had anything to do with my investigation. But I was trying to understand what Spencer—

"What're you doing?" Spencer cried, suddenly there in the room with me, the words coming out of her throat in gasps.

I could tell that she was mortified, staring down at the diary in my hands, her hands twitching like she wanted to snatch it out of my hands.

"Your mother let me in," I said, shrugging it off, because of course that was no excuse.

If anything, my words just seemed to upset Spencer even more, like she couldn't decide what was worse, me reading her diaries or me meeting her mother.

I glanced over my shoulder. "She's passed out in the bedroom." I didn't mean for it to come off like that. If Spencer only knew how many times I'd found my own mother like that.

"You can't read those," Spencer told me, her voice defiant.

"They were in plain sight."

"I'm not a suspect," she said, the defiance giving way to a plea, as if she was trying to will her words into reality.

"You can't have it both ways," I told her, mimicking her words from the last time we'd seen other. "Either you're involved or you aren't."

"I'm not involved."

"You found both bodies," I reminded her

"It's a coincidence," she said, and paused.

I couldn't help wondering if she was thinking about that little book of coincidences she was keeping. I wondered if this would've made it in there, if we hadn't taken it from her.

"And I'm supposed to believe that you just up and decided to join this cult?" I quipped. I was being an asshole. _Maybe even racist_. But I was trying to piss her off, trying to goad her into explaining what the hell she was really doing at the Zen Institute. _Did they make it alright?_

"It's not a cult and I have every right to join," Spencer said, sticking out her chin and crossing her arms across her chest.

"Why?"

"Why?" She looked confused.

"Why are you suddenly hanging out there?"

She opened and closed her mouth, like she herself didn't know the answer.

Or like she was struggling with the cover story.

And the fact that I didn't know which it was just made me angry all over again.

"I can understand why you'd be interested in the case," I said, with a tone of mockery—I couldn't help it. I held up the journal that I'd been reading. "You're a lonely, bored woman."

She seemed to sag in front of me.

But I wasn't going to let it go. What she was doing was stupid. "You think it's romantic," I said. "But it isn't. It's dangerous. You need to grow up and get a life."

When she didn't say anything, I decided that I had made my point.

"You need to stay out of the investigation," I said, repeating my earlier warning _._

She just kept standing there, not replying, so I put it to her more harshly.

"Tell me you're not going to go back to the Zen Institute."

Something flashed in her eyes, but she surprised me with the next sentence out of her mouth. "I won't go back," she said, her voice strained, the words obviously difficult for her to get out, which I could understand. I'd embarrassed the hell out of her. But it was for her own good.

I thought about asking her about the _Memoirs to Prove the Non-Existence of the World_. I thought about asking her about what had happened on that island. But I seriously doubted she would give me a straight story.

So I handed her the diary and left, still unsure whether I'd fixed anything or just screwed it up even worse.

 **AN: Manzanar was a Japanese internment camp.**

 **Edward's boorish comments regarding the Zen Institute are worrisome in an officer and contradictory given his fondness (as discussed in a later chapter) for Asian film. But humans are contradictory. I've avoided asking Edward to engage in any deep introspection regarding race. That's absolutely a fair criticism of this story that I should probably think about addressing in another epilogue.**

 **The motorcycle book being referenced in this chapter is** ** _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_** **. The only people who talk to me about this are assholes, and white, and intent upon using the book to justify their assholishness, like it's the Ayn Rand for hippies. Alas, I haven't read the book for myself, so I don't know if they're using it correctly or just misappropriating it. My apologies if my assessment is, in fact, unwarranted.**

 **Note: I discuss the weird intersection of Ayn Rand and Zen Buddhism in the person Veema's based on in** ** _Book of Monsters_** **, if you're interested.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"Without any destination_

 _I walk between the tombstones."_ Santōka Taneda 315 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 8

I didn't mention my visit to Spencer's apartment to Nichols. I was still worried that Spencer was going to turn out to be a problem, but until I knew for sure, I wasn't going to involve him.

As of yet, there was still no evidence that there was anything crooked going on at the Zen Institute. And since the higher-ups were dead-set on finding a business angle, Nichols and I had our hands full with Milton's associates, looking for links to Murota.

Everyone wanted to forget Spencer.

Which was fine with me, since it meant that I could satisfy my own suspicions in that regard without raising any attention.

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"Isabella Spencer's supervisor gave me your name. I'm just following up on a case," I said.

It had taken me a while to track down Spencer's old coworkers, Jack Marin and Veema Mehta. Marin was supposed to be in another state, going to grad school. But Mehta was working in at another biotech firm, right in DC.

"Izzy?" Mehta scoffed. "She finally murder someone?"

Pretending like she hadn't just thrown a bucket of water over my head, I asked her to explain herself. "Why do you say that?"

"She's a nut-job." The colloquialism sounded odd in Mehta's clipped, almost British accent.

"You ever witness her being violent towards anyone?" I asked.

"She was always throwing temper tantrums."

I thought that was an odd phrase to use about an adult. "So you think she has the capacity for hurting someone, physically?"

"You betcha," she said, her anger obvious as she scowled at me.

"I take it that you two aren't friends anymore."

Mehta suddenly looked less certain of herself. "What did she tell you about me?"

"She hasn't said a word." And she hadn't. Not out loud at least.

"Why're you here again?" Mehta asked looking at me.

"Like I said, just following up on a case."

"What case?"

I shrugged. "How about you just tell me your side of things."

Her eyes narrowed. "Whatever Izzy told you is a lie."

"Like I said, she hasn't said a thing. It was all her coworkers, and your old supervisor."

Mehta looked like she didn't believe me. "What do you want to know?" she asked clearly trying to get me to give something away.

"Just what you know about her. Any reason to think she might be mixed up in something illegal."

Mehta's eyes widened. "You're kidding me, right? Izzy's a baby."

"So you never heard her talking about anything—or anyone—that would make you think she'd gotten in over her head?"

"She hasn't got the spine for anything illegal."

"Any shady friends?"

"Izzy barely had any friends. Her parents kept her on such a tight leash. You know, _I_ 'm the reason she moved out of that trailer."

"Really?"

Mehta nodded. "I'm the one who talked her into it. I was always having to push her to do things. She was such a coward."

"You ever push her into doing something she didn't want to do?" I asked, my tone light.

Mehta's eyes narrowed again. "Izzy always decided that I was right in the end."

"What happened on the island?"

Mehta shook her head, her neat bob swinging around her face. "I don't have to talk about anything with you. You think that just because I have an accent you can railroad me? I'm not stupid. You don't have any jurisdiction. She was _in love_ with Jack, did she tell you that? But she was too cowardly to do anything about it. _I_ was the one who—" Mehta stopped, as if realizing what she was about to say. "He didn't see anything in her, of course. She was just a child and he's so good looking."

Her voice wobbled at the end of that.

She was jealous. That much was obvious. Jealous and angry and hurt.

I wondered which of them Mehta was really in love with, Isabella Spencer or Jack Marin. Maybe it was both. I wondered if she even realized it.

She scowled, her fury making her ugly. "Besides Izzy wasn't even really that upset. Not until we got back. I've got tons of witnesses to confirm that she spent the rest of that vacation with us. Going out to dinner. Snorkeling. There was no way she was going to get charges to stick after that."

"You were afraid that she was going to press charges?"

Mehta sneered. "I'm done talking to you. You want to talk to me some more, I want a lawyer first."

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Since neither Murota nor Milton appeared to have any connection to the biotech firm where Spencer had met Veema Mehta and Jack Marin—and since there was no evidence that either Murota or Milton had been to Turks and Caicos—I didn't really have grounds for calling Mehta in for formal questioning.

But I was still looking forward to Marin returning my call. And in the meantime, I figured it wouldn't hurt to talk to Spencer's advisor at the university.

When I introduced myself to the gentleman, he surprised me, questioning not why I was looking into Spencer, but complaining that he had to have his boat put up for the winter.

"Do you sail?" he asked me, looking hopeful.

"No, can't say that I do."

"You should."

I nodded, like it was just by a strange oversight that I didn't happen to have several friends with yachts just lying around.

"So as I said, I'm here to ask you about one of your students."

"She doesn't sail either."

I blinked. "How long has she been a student here?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Several years. The Registrar could tell you."

"And is she doing well"

He began tapping his fingers against his desk, a solid cherry-looking thing. A stack of books sat in one corner, orphans obviously left to fend for themselves when the bookcase became too full. "She's a fine student. A fine mind."

"So she never had any problems?"

He tsked. "She had some trouble with the German. I learned ancient Greek in Germany _, in_ _German_."

He paused, making sure that I was suitably impressed.

"She doing alright otherwise?" I asked.

"Isabella is one of the best student's I've ever had. She has a mind for theory. Certainly the best student I've ever had when it comes to _theory._ "

I had no idea what that meant, so I just asked my next question. "And she gets along with the other students?"

He stopped tapping and made a vague gesture in the air. "Everyone gets along. We are an amicable bunch." He paused again. "Not that we don't have our debates now and then. But they're purely academic."

"Has Ms. Spencer ever seemed anxious? Like she was worried about something?"

"She works a great deal. It would be better if she could concentrate on her studies."

"So she seems stressed about work?"

He looked contrite. "She works hard."

"Why is that? I mean, couldn't she get a scholarship or something?"

"Graduate school is expensive these days. Even at a public university. We couldn't guarantee her funding."

"Even though she's so smart?"

"Oh, she would _deserve_ it, of course. But there have been cutbacks."

"How much of an issue is this? Has she ever seemed—" I searched for the right word. "Desperate?"

He made an unhappy noise. "You don't mean that she's tried to hurt herself? Is _that_ why you're here?"

I rushed to correct him. "No. No, I'm just following up on a case. She was a witness. That's all. I need to verify that there isn't reason why we need to suspect her—her _trustworthiness_."

He began tapping again. "Isabella strikes me as a profoundly ethical person. She _despises_ Tacitus. If anything she is a trifle _too_ simple. Almost gullible. An odd thing to find in a person so enamored of _theory_ , but she _wants_ to believe the accounts as they're given."

Some of his speech had gone right over my head, but I got the gist of it. "You would vouch for her character?"

"Absolutely."

And that was good enough for me. Yeah, he seemed a little unconventional, but I knew from experience that academia had a streak of eccentricity. _Absent professor._

I asked him not to mention my visit to Spencer—but I had the feeling he was going to forget that he'd seen me the minute that I left his office—and I was on my way out of the building when I caught sight of a glass case filled with books, the work of various professors employed by the department. The stopped because one of the books had a picture of a samurai glancing over his shoulder at a black cloud of smoke. I recognized that picture—it had been hanging in Murota's living room.

The book—on folklore—had been written by one Ai Dokima, PhD. I found her name on the directory, hanging on the wall by the entrance, and took a chance that she would be in that day.

As luck would have it, she was.

I showed her my badge and asked if she had time for a few questions.

"About what?"

"The cover of your book—out in the hall—what's the picture about?"

She quirked an eyebrow at me. " _Fuwa Bansaku_ by Kanagai Robun?"

I shrugged.

"It's about a samurai who went to a temple to examine a demon," she said.

"Is that a strange thing to be a collector's item?"

She glanced down at her bookshelf, stuffed to overflowing just like her colleague. "People collect all kinds of things."

"Have you heard of some sort of game where people tell ghost stories?"

" _Hyaku monogatari._ 100 ghost stories. The game was outlawed at one point."

I thought that sounded strange. "But they're just ghost stories, right? Why would they be outlawed?"

"They riled people up."

I must've looked skeptical, because she grabbed a book from the corner of her desk and opened it, tilting the book so that I could see the page she'd turned to. It was an illustration—a _hideous_ illustration, an enormous head with one of the eyes large and bloated, the other one distended, drooping grossly.

"This is probably the most famous ghost," she explained. "Oiwa. Her husband was poisoning her. The poison caused her disfigurement."

She turned another page, showing another illustration, this one showing a woman reading a scroll while a massive skull leered at her over a curtain.

"Here Koheiji is haunting his wife. He was murdered by her lover."

The picture was more disquieting than it should have been, the juxtaposition of languid curves and the horror of the subject matter jarring, with the dead man's eyes, the pupils peering up almost whimsically.

It seemed strange to me that Murota and his friends would collect art work like this, and tell ghost stories, then run off to the institute seeking peace and enlightenment.

"What about Zen Buddhism?" I asked. "Has it got anything to do with these stories?"

She seemed taken aback by my question. "There are demons and ghosts in Zen Buddhism, if that's what you mean, but they aren't _inherent_ to the practice."

"I keep asking people what Zen Buddhism is, and I keep getting different answers."

"Zen Buddhists were the first deconstructionists."

"I don't know what that means." I couldn't decide if people were _trying_ to confuse me, or if I was just an idiot.

"You're not supposed to. It's intentionally vague."

So at least she admitted it.

Standing, she took a book off of one of the bookshelves and opened to a bookmark. "Here. Read this. It's not _Zen_ , any more than anything else is _Zen_ , but it might help."

I took the book from her and started reading. And she was right—it wasn't exactly straightforward: "'For an intelligent fellow, one word should suffice to convince him of the truth of it, but even then error has crept in. Stop all your hankerings let the mildew grown on your lips; make yourself like unto a perfect piece of immaculate silk; let your one thought be eternity; let yourself be like dead ashes, cold and lifeless; again let yourself be like an old censer in a deserted village shrine! Let your body and mind be turned into an inanimate object of nature like a stone or a piece of wood; when a state of perfect motionless and unawareness is obtained all the signs of life will depart and also every trace of limitation will vanish. Not a single idea will disturb your consciousness, when lo! all of a sudden you will come to realize a light bounding in full gladness. It is like coming across a light in thick darkness; it is like receiving treasure in poverty. Your very existence has been delivered from all limitations. You gain an illuminating insight into the very nature of things, which now appear to you as so many fairlylike flowers having no graspable realities.'"

When I finished, I looked up at her. "If there's no reality, why bother? If nothing's real, doesn't that mean enlightenment is fake too?"

She pursed her lips. "But if everything is real, wouldn't enlightenment be real too?" She shook her head. "My specialty is folklore, tracing traditions, not theology. But I know that the arrival of Buddhism in Japan caused a kind of uproar. How can you practice politics, enforce laws, if you believe in such things?"

"And someone who questions reality like this, today?" I left the end of the sentence unfinished.

It was all well and fine for a monk to question whether or not the world actually existed—to separate himself from society and practice meditation all day—but for a woman who had a job and was going to school, if carried too far, it might indicate some sort of unbalance.

Especially if you spent too much time thinking about ghost stories.

 **AN:**

 **The illustration of Oiwa that I mentioned is the one by Shunkōsai Houkei.**

 **The last illustration I mentioned is Katsushika Hosukai's** ** _Kohada Koheiji._**

 **The final discussion is abridged from Yuan-wu in c. 1566-1642 in Suzuki 46.**

 **I'm obviously not saying that Zen Buddhists are somehow crazy. I'm pointing out the difficulty associated with practicing a philosophy/religion that seems to contradict commitments to modern life in the USA. I explore this issue much more thoroughly in** ** _Book of Monsters_** **. There are similar arguments connecting the rise of Christianity with the fall of the Roman Empire in the west.**

 **If you read** ** _Book of Monsters_** **, you know that Veema Mehta is based on a real person. Yes, she's Indian. I discuss issues associated with her ethnicity more fully in** ** _Book of Monsters_** **, since it's not entirely unrelated to the issue of Bella's interest in Buddhism. I'm repeating some of that discussion here, though, because I'm sensitive to the importance of these issues, particularly with all of the bullshit going on in my country right now.**

 **Even though I was raised Catholic and went to church (with my father), I often attended Buddhist (Nichiren Shoshu) meetings with my mother and her sister, my aunt. My mother was all over the map when it came to religion/philosophy. She'd read Carlos Casteneda one week, and declare herself a Methodist the next. Attracted though I was to Buddhism, I shied away from it, in part because of a falling out between my mother and my aunt. But then I met the person that Veema is based on, and we often discussed the subject. Even though she was Indian—not Japanese—"Veema" was very attracted to Zen Buddhism. We had plans to visit a monastery before our "falling out." Years later, when my mother died, I started going to the place that the Zen Institute is based on, looking for help with my mounting anxiety. At the time, I had a hard time getting "Veema's" voice out of my head. I felt like I didn't belong at the "Institute," not only because it felt like I was trying to appropriate someone else's culture—I felt like I was being exploitative—but because "Veema" had told me so many times that I was too volatile to practice the sort of discipline required for Zen Buddhism. She was just so very sure that I was out of control, so very insistent on the fact that I needed someone else to tell me what to do. Naturally, that person was her.**

 **A plethora of articles have been published in the last few months on the subject of "gaslighting" and "malignant narcissistic personality disorder" (in relation to a certain politician). Reading them, I was shocked to realize that at least three people in my life look very much like malignant narcissists: my mother, the person Veema is based on, and another close friend. I was also shocked to find that 1) malignant narcissists are attracted to sensitive people (which is maybe a good description of me) and 2) my decision to just cut these people off—which I'd always thought was cowardly and immature—was actually what psychiatrists recommend. I'm not saying this in order to portray myself as some sort of victim—if you read** ** _Book of Monsters_** **, I make it clear that I take responsibility for my mistakes with "Veema." (And I honestly think that she would've said every word that I put in her mouth in this chapter.)**

 **I'm saying this because if anyone reading this is in a relationship with a malignant narcissist: Get the f out. Seriously. You can't change them. Psychiatrists think that they actually can't be treated—because they'll never admit there's something wrong.**

 **I'm also telling you all of this because I have no interest in demonizing non-Caucasians or non-Western culture and I'm worried that my effort to tell a story about** ** _people_** **might be simultaneously a story about** ** _cultures/races_** **. Can people be separated from the politics that govern ethnicity?**

 **I'm thankful to the "Institute" for trying to help me, even though I decided that it wasn't for me (meditating gave me panic attacks). And I freely admit that my problems with "Veema" were largely a reflection of my own personal issues. Do I think that she's malignant narcissist? Yes. But there were two people in that friendship. (Three if you count the person Marin is based on. I can't decide if he would've been "ok" on his own—if** ** _she_** **egged him on—or if I'm making excuses for him because women always try to defend men. We're much harder on women. I don't think I'm giving "Marin" a break because he's white, though. Maybe I'm wrong about that. But if anything, the fact that he seemed so perfect—white and good looking and smart and "cool"—made me dislike him at first. At the same time, "Veema" mattered much more to me than he did—so she hurt me more.)**

 **I don't doubt that ethnicity affected our friendship, if only implicitly. It would be ignorant to pretend otherwise. I've tried to be as honest as possible about these issues—to the extent that I am/was conscious of them—in the telling of** ** _Book of Monsters_** **and, to a lesser extent,** ** _100 Ghost Stories_** **. I'm still not sure that my effort is entirely satisfactory. I'm especially bothered by the fact that I cast an Indian as a "bad" guy and that I've set a murder at a Zen "Institute." I'm not sure that it's enough to say that "Veema" is a real person and that the "death" that actually took place was the entirely natural death of my (white) mother in a hospital bed, an event which triggered my visits to the "Institute." And I wonder to what extent my blindness of the racial aspects of these experiences of mine is an artifact of my whiteness. That is, I had the luxury of ignoring my skin color, pretending it didn't matter, except for a few occasions. Did "Veema" and the nonwhite members of the "Institute" see things differently?**

 **To make matters worse, I totally fucked up the first version of** ** _Book of Monsters_** **(written for LLS). The initial draft was nowhere near as sensitive to racial issues as it needed to be. I wrote it too quickly and my tone was far too sarcastic. I'm afraid that this sarcasm came off as derision towards cultures not my own, which wasn't at all my intention. I hope that I've fixed most of this in the final version of** ** _Book of Monsters_** **posted to Fanfiction.**

 **Of course, I could've avoided all of these issues by taking ethnicity completely out of the story. "Veema" could've been Caucasian. I could've gone to a Christian church instead of the "Institute." But I wanted to stick to what actually happened as much as possible. It was** ** _my_** **truth. That's why I wanted to write it, even if that meant that it was messy.**

 ** _100 Ghost Stories_** **is different from** ** _Book of Monsters_** **insofar as it is more about Edward trying to understand Bella, and therefore Bella's interest in other cultures, than Edward's interest in the subject, meaning that all of these issues are at handled at one step removed. In some ways, that makes my management of these issues seem all the more disappointing, particularly in light of the vitriol that's coming out of the mouths of my "fellow" Americans more and more these days.**

 **As you may know, I am writing** ** _Crash_** **to try to address these issues in a more head-on manner.**

 **And as you can see from this rambling AN, I** ** _want_** **to write about the challenges and benefits of living in a multicultural society, but I'm struggling to figure out how to do this effectively and sensitively.**

 **This rambling AN isn't me excusing what I've done. It's me trying to explain where I'm coming from and admitting that I haven't got it figured out.**

 **And I'm utterly sick of people pretending like they walk on water when it comes to race in America. We've got to take a hard long look in the mirror.**

 **Yeah, I'm angry and hurt and I want things to change. I'm also willing to admit that this means that I've got to fix my own shit, too.**

 **I'm saying this because I hope that everyone reading this is doing the same thing with themselves. No one's perfect, after all.**

 **Of course, maybe you're more woke than me. If so, congratulations. But I really write for myself, not you. I write to entertain myself. To challenge myself. And now, to help me figure out how to write about race.**

 **Why talk about this at all? I used to write about other things—I promised to write more along those lines.**

 **And then I woke up one day and they were talking about putting Muslims in fucking internment camps. I woke up one day and didn't recognize my country.**

 **I also know that's my fault. I know that this country has been messed up my whole life. Any excuse I could give for sitting on my ass until now would be trite and not worth hearing.**

 **So, I'm moving on.**

 **I'm trying to face my demons. Even the ones that (unconsciously or not) are racist.**

 **These days, people are so hung up on being called a "racist." They should be. It's a horrible thing. But it's** ** _such_** **a horrible thing, that people are digging in their heels. They're doubling down: "If I'm a racist, then fine. I'll be a super racist. (And maybe there's nothing wrong with racism.)" They're wrong—but how do you convince them of that?**

 **I'm writing—in** ** _Book of Monsters_** **and to a lesser extent** ** _100 Ghost Stories_** **—in part to talk about my own struggle with my racist tendencies, because I want to make it easier for people to admit when they make a mistake (intentionally or not) and then correct. I want to show by example that it is possible.**

 **I freely admit that the resulting text is still extremely problematic in terms of race. It's based on my own life and any account of that would** ** _have_** **to be problematic. (After all, America is so racist that football players can't even protest racism without people automatically assuming that the players are protesting America itself.) But that's only part of the issue. That is, racism in America is a problem but my handling of the subject is—I admit—still flawed.**

 **I think that life in a cosmopolitan world is hard and fucking awesome and totally worth the difficulty. If we don't talk about these difficulties, I wonder how we're going to fix them. So I wrote a flawed story that talks about some experiences I had, and I'm not sure that I was completely ethical in my behavior in the situations that are described or in my telling of them.**

 **I clearly don't have this all figured out. I'm trying though. I hope you're trying too.**

 **No one's ever going to be perfect. But we** ** _should_** **try. We** ** _have_** **to.**

 **I can't fathom the alternative. I haven't got the words.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"I've rice._

 _Books._

 _And tobacco."_ Santōka Taneda 308 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 9

She was just sitting there. Sipping on her drink and skimming her book.

It was a bookshop, so it wasn't like she was doing anything wrong. I suppose that should've made me happy. But it just pissed me off.

She was supposed to be at work.

I'd been following Spencer off-and-on for a few days now, taking advantage of some of my use-it-or-lose-it leave. My sudden "vacation" wasn't exactly convenient, but we were still stalled on the case, with some of Murota and Miton's associates giving us the run around on sharing their financials. The "vacation" was Nichols' idea, really. He threatened to report me for causing him on-the-job stress, or some bullshit like that, if I didn't take a few half-days.

He had no clue, of course, that I'd decided to spend my "vacation" following Spencer around. But what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

She apparently had some big tests at the university. Four hours long the first day and three hours the next. She looked anxious as hell going into them and straight-up miserable coming out. I almost felt bad for her.

Both nights I called her—no real reason; I was just going to ask if she'd remembered anything else—but she didn't pick up. I knew she was in her apartment because I saw her go in the kitchen.

It was all I could do not to go up and knock.

The next day, I followed Spencer all of the way to the place where she worked before I realized how ridiculous I was being. Without an around-the-clock watch, chances were that I'd miss her doing anything incriminating. And I didn't have enough evidence to justify getting the watch. Even if I sat in that parking lot for the next eight-and-a-half hours, it was highly unlikely that I'd be any closer to making a decision about Spencer's reliability.

So I went to the movies instead. Just before I got to the theater, I tried calling her again, and when it went to voicemail, I told myself that it didn't mean anything.

The picture ended up being some overblown spectacle with bad CG, but the chemicals they put on the popcorn must've activated some under-utilized pleasure receptors in the brain, and I'd forgotten how much I liked Twizzlers. I even had a nice little nap somewhere between the top of the third act and the credits.

Sated and well-rested, I was making my way back to my car when I happened to glance in the window of a bookshop.

And found myself looking right at Spencer.

I was through the door and standing next to her table before I'd consciously registered what I was doing.

It took her a minute to realize that I was standing there, and when she did a look of horror flashed over her face—I almost thought I had her—but then it was gone, her face a stony mask as she glared at me.

"They're not _How to Get away with Murder_ ," she said, glancing down at the books sitting on the little round table.

"You already own more books than anyone I know," I said, deciding to sit even though she hadn't extended an invitation. "Why're you hanging out in a bookstore?"

I wasn't just screwing with her. I wanted to know. I wanted her to explain it to me.

"Why d'you have so many books?" I asked. "Have you read all of them?"

She shook her head, and it occurred to me that my question might've embarrassed her. Like I was saying that there was something wrong with her.

"I don't mean anything by it," I said, feeling strangely compelled to justify myself. As if _I_ was somehow at fault.

Not liking how that felt, I tried to play it off. "It's just that I never get time to read. So I guess I'm envious."

"My parents bought books instead of food," she said, then seemed to realize how that sounded, because she started fidgeting.

Which reminded me that she had a very good reason for being nervous around me. She was a suspect in a murder investigation.

I still didn't understand what she was doing at the Zen Institute.

"Is it a fad?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not Asian," I clarified.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "So I can't be interested in Buddhism?"

I shook my head slowly, trying to figure out the best way to get her to say the right words. To get her to say just the right thing to set my conscience at ease when it came to her role in the case. To get her to explain it to me so that it made sense.

Unsurprisingly, I opted for the low road. I was an asshole. "I have a cousin who calls herself a witch," I said. "I think she's just trying to be different. I mean, why can't you be happy with what you've got?"

"What I've got?"

If anything, I was just pissing her off even more. So I decided to go for broke. "You know, church."

"Christianity?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"You do know that Jesus stole his religion from Buddha, don't you?"

I just looked at her.

"That is," she added, "assuming that Jesus even existed."

I admit it—I wasn't expecting that.

But the instant the words were out of her mouth, Spencer seemed to have second thoughts. "That's just a conspiracy theory," she said, dropping her eyes. "I'm not saying that I believe it." Then she sniffed, her tone turning imperious. "I neither know nor care if Jesus existed or went to India."

Guess I wasn't the only one who'd decided to go for being an asshole.

"Then why say it?" I asked. Was she just flighty? Was that reason she seemed like she was all over the place?

Spencer met my eyes again. "The existence of Jesus and his possible influences constitute valid historical questions."

She sounded so rational. So calm.

Like an academic.

"Is that what you're researching?" I asked. "At school? Christianity?"

She shrugged again, as if not wanting to commit herself.

Which made me wonder how much of what she'd ever said to me was just intended to get a reaction, to rile me. I snorted. "You do that a lot, don't you?"

"Do what?" she asked.

"Try to shock people."

Spencer seemed surprised by the question, as if it had never occurred to her that she could possibly be that shallow. But she quickly turned it around. "You don't strike me as very religious."

"I don't?" I wasn't. But how the hell would she know about that?

"You're a cop," she said, as if it was self-explanatory.

I don't know why I was so aggravated by that. "I'm a _detective_ ," I reminded her _._ Then, like an idiot, I kept going. "And I don't see what that has to do with it."

She was back to imperious. "You're not very nice. As a _collective_ , I mean. The police don't appear to be very interested in _loving thy neighbor_ , if you know what I mean."

It shouldn't have bothered me. I was used to hearing crap like this. But for some reason, the fact that it was coming from her—of all people—was just too much. "We keep the order so that others can enjoy the peace."

"Hmph."

I decided that maybe Mehta was right. Spencer was a child, hiding behind all of her books.

"It's easy to be judge someone from the sidelines," I said. And I was pleased to see that I seemed to have hit a nerve with her.

She was glaring at me again. "I thought that's where you wanted me," Spencer snapped. "On the sidelines. Out of your investigation."

I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it, because she was right. "Yeah," I nodded. "How's that going for you?"

Only then did I happen to glance down at the books on the table. I was surprised to see what looked like self-help titles.

"Just fine," she replied, sounding all prim and proper. The very model of sobriety.

"That's good." I glanced up at her, wondering what she was doing with all of those self-help books.

She watched me watching her.

"Is there something you wanted?" she asked at last.

Spencer had yet to speak the magic words. She'd yet to set me at ease on the question of her involvement on the case. But it didn't look like I was going to get much further with her that day.

I shook my head.

"Did you actually come in here just to watch me read?"

I blinked, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. "I came in here to buy a present."

"Well then, don't let me stop you."

"I've been trying to contact you," I said, trying to turn the tables.

"Have you?" She was obviously trying not to react.

"You not answering your phone?"

Instead of replying, she pulled out her phone, and pursed her lips when she found that it was indeed off. "I had to turn it off while I was taking a test," she said. "And I must have forgotten to turn it back on."

"Two days in a row—it makes a person worry."

She smiled to herself, no doubt finding it hard to believe that I gave a damn about her well-being.

And I didn't like that. It wasn't like I took my job lightly. "I tried your work. I even tried your place."

"Well, I'm here," she said, taking another sip of her drink.

"Have you noticed anyone watching you?" I asked, half because I wanted to know if she'd noticed me and half because I was genuinely worried that the killer might be interested in her.

She started to cough, obviously not expecting that question. I rose out of my seat, planning to pat her on the back, but she pulled away shaking her head. Which kind of made me feel like an even bigger asshole.

"What d'you mean?" she asked when she could breathe again.

"You know, like anyone lurking." I pulled one of the books on the table towards me. _Organizing Your Life_. It seemed to me that Spencer needed a little organizing, a little more order.

But then, reflecting on the fact that she was working and going to school full-time, not to mention obvious social issues and an alcoholic mother. I wondered if the real problem was that she was _over_ -organized. Maybe Spencer was an example of what happened to a person when pushed she herself too hard: Seeing people that weren't there in garages and suddenly joining religious orders that questioned the very existence of reality.

Too much stress and a person was bound to crack up. Wasn't that what Nichols was always warning me?

"Why're you asking?" She sounded more than a little suspicious.

I pulled another book towards me, fiddling with the cover. I didn't want to scare her.

Then again, it occurred to me that some fear might do her good.

"Maybe someone's taken a special interest in you," I said. "We've been assuming it was the Zen Institute that was the link, but it might be you."

"Me?"

"So have you noticed anyone following you around?"

It took her a full minute to process the question, and when she replied, it was with a full measure of contempt. "Why no, officer," she said, in a sickly sweet tone, "I haven't seen anyone lurking around my door. Have you?"

The accusation took me off my guard. Had she noticed me tailing her?

But if she was innocent, she wouldn't care, would she? If she was innocent, she'd be grateful to have me watching her back.

So I was angry all over again. Either she was playing me or she was a goddamn idiot.

I glared at her. "Can you think of anyone who might want to do you harm?"

"Every single person I know wants to do me harm," she replied snidely.

And I couldn't tell if she really believed it, or if she was just trying to piss me off again.

I scoffed. "Not very many friends then?"

"How did you put it?" she cocked her head to the side. "Oh yes, I'm 'a lonely, bored woman.' And I need 'to get a life.'"

I didn't like her throwing my words back in my face, but I supposed that I deserved it.

She shrugged. "What can I say? People don't like me."

Well, I wouldn't let her lay this at my doorstep. "Whose fault is that?"

Spencer wasn't exactly ugly, after all. She had a kind of blonde Liv Tyler thing going on, in fact. She could've been out there. She could've been making friends. Dating people.

"Mine," she retorted. "Obviously. Hence this." She flicked a hand at the books on the table.

And I realized that she meant it. Spencer actually thought she could fix all of her problems with books.

Catching a glimpse of the title of the book I'd been unconsciously fiddling with, I held it up. "Even this?"

It was on dream interpretation.

Goddamn _dreams._

"Oneirology is an established area of psychoanalysis," she said, back to prim and proper.

"Oneirology?" I asked, trying to sound the word out.

"Dream interpretation."

And _that_ right there was the root of her problem. "Always have to have a big word for everything, don't you?" No wonder she didn't have any friends.

"It's how I justify my existence," she replied, a vicious note creeping into her voice.

She was full of shit, though. With all of her books—all of her smarts—and throwing it away on _dream_ interpretation.

"But you don't believe in this crap, do you?" I asked.

"Depends," she said, and I could tell that she was just trying to rile me up again, because her eyes were scanning the bookshop like she was worried about someone overhearing. And when she spoke again, it was sotte voce, so that I had to lean across the table to hear her. "Do you like going down on women?"

Had I heard her correctly? "Excuse me?"

She was practically whispering, but her eyes were on my face, like she was gauging my reaction. "Artemidorus said a dream-interpreter has to know as much about his client as possible."

I was about to tell her that it sounded like a con when she brought up the oral sex thing again.

"The Romans weren't supposed to like going down on women. It was fine for a woman to go down on a guy, but the opposite, not so much." She shook her head like there was something clearly wrong with the ancient Romans, but otherwise she was all innocence and doe-eyes, like we were just discussing the weather. If not for the faint blush on her cheeks, I'd have thought the topic was about salacious as lollipops and puppies.

"Artemidorus had this client," she continued, "who actually _liked_ going down on his wife, which was crazy in Artemidorus' opinion, but it meant that it wasn't necessarily a bad thing when this guy would dream about it. Anyone else, a dream like that would have meant something awful. That's why Artemidorus said that you had to know as much about your client as possible. Dream interpretation is a key to the soul."

She sat back, this secret little smile on her face, like she'd just explained this big secret to me. But I wasn't buying it.

"The soul?" I sounded just as skeptical as I felt.

"Why not?" she asked, as if she was genuinely surprised by my response.

"A dream's just a dream," I said, crossing my arms as if to make a point.

"The Gnostics said it was the _waking_ world that was the dream. That _everyone_ was asleep."

And there I was again, totally at a loss, trying to figure out where the hell she was coming from. "The who?"

"The Gnostics. Not _ag-_ gnostic. That's something different."

I couldn't tell if she was serious or just screwing with me. If the former, then there had to be something wrong with her, right? Like mentally. And if she was just screwing with me, well then, that suggested she wasn't as innocent as she claimed.

"You seem to think this is a joke," I said.

And just like that, she went from absent professor to hostile witness. "No, you think _I_ 'm a joke."

"We could do this down at the station," I reminded her. It occurred to me that maybe talking to her like this, outside of official surroundings, was crossing a line that I couldn't afford to cross.

"So let's go," she said, trying to sound defiant again, but I could see the way her hands were trembling.

Was she just anxious to be talking to me, to a detective? That was enough to upset a lot of people.

And she _was_ in danger—or _could_ be in danger from whoever had killed Murota and Milton.

So why did it seem like she was intentionally looking for trouble? What was she doing at the Institute?

I remembered that conversation with her mother. My talks with her coworkers. And everything I'd read in her journals.

I leaned towards her across the table again. "You know," I said, my voice low. "If you've got something you want to tell me, you can. You can confide in me."

I meant it, too. Really meant it.

Which was insane, because that wasn't necessarily my job. If she was somehow mixed up in this murder, then okay, that _was_ my job. But if it was something else, if she needed help—like mental help—there was only so much I could do. I had the numbers for some crisis centers. I was sure that there were counselors at her school.

And I would do what I could for her.

But I couldn't help feeling like I was promising her more than I was really able to give. Like I was maybe committing to something I wasn't ready for.

I was in over my head. I was too invested.

I could see the indecision in her face, and when she cleared her throat at last, my breath caught in my throat.

"I haven't got anything to say," she said.

I stood up abruptly, just so damn relieved and disappointed at the same time.

"Watch out for yourself," I said. And I turned on my heel, needing to get out of there as quickly as possible.

I didn't even wait for her to reply before I was gone, and it wasn't until I made it to my car that I remembered that I'd "forgotten" to pick up the present that I'd supposedly gone in the bookshop to buy.

 **AN:**

 **In writing this chapter from Edward's perspective, it struck me (anew?) just how very odd Bella is. Her particular brand of crazy is based on my own speculations about the nature of things, however, so I hope she comes off as credible, if nevertheless strange.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"No life but this one_

 _Spring snow falls."_ Santōka Taneda 216 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 10

I'd been playing phone tag with Jack Marin for days, and now that I'd finally gotten him on the phone, he was playing word games out of me.

Oh yeah, he said, he was sort of maybe, kind of a 'friend' of Spencer's. Really, he just worked with her.

I told him that I'd never flown to the Caribbean with any of my coworkers.

Alright then, he admitted, 'good friends,' for a while at least.

So what went wrong?

He said it was nothing, really. Just, you know, sometimes you went on vacation with someone and you saw the real person.

I was sick of beating around the bush. "Did you assault Isabella Spencer?"

Marin made an inarticulate sound. "God no. It was all Veema."

"She _forced_ you to assault Isabella?"

"No! I never touched her! It was Veema. Veema was the one who—"

"The one who what?"

Marin had fallen silent.

"I'm giving you a chance to tell me your side of things," I told him.

"Izzy's pressing charges?"

"She might be thinking about it." It wasn't a lie. For all I knew, she _was_ thinking about it.

"It wasn't in the US."

"She can still get a restraining order. That wouldn't look very good for someone in your line of work. You wouldn't be able to pass a background check."

"I never touched Izzy. It was Veema!"

"Ms. Mehta says Izzy was violent. That true?"

"I never saw Izzy do anything violent. Not _physically_. Veema was the one who attacked her."

"And you stood by and watched," I guessed.

"It was just a game. It wasn't supposed to get so out of hand."

"What kind of a game is that?"

Marin fell silent again.

"I'm not looking to jam up an innocent man," I said. "If Ms. Mehta was acting alone, I need you to convince me."

"I don't remember who said it first," Marin said in a rush, his words tumbling one after the other. "It was just supposed to be a joke at first."

"A joke?"

"Izzy just seemed so innocent. So clueless."

"And what? You took advantage of that? Why? What did you want?"

"Nothing. I told you, it was just a game. We didn't want anything. We were just having fun."

"Define 'fun.'"

Marin sighed. "We would screw with her. Like we would set up little scenarios to see what she would do. We would pretend to fight, just to see whose side she would pick. Little, stupid arguments, like where to eat lunch. And then it got more serious. Veema and I stopped speaking to each other, for like a month, it was like we'd fallen for our own game, and the entire time we were tugging Izzy back and forth between us."

"You call this 'fun'?"

"Izzy lied all of the time. Did she tell you that? Did she tell you the crap that she would try to feed us? All in attempt to seem less pathetic."

I didn't like the fact that he'd called Spencer a liar. _But wasn't that exactly what I'd been suspecting?_

I didn't have time to figure out how I felt about that, because for some reason that last bit was really getting to me.

"Pathetic?" I wanted him to explain that to me.

"She let her parents dictate every aspect of her life. She was twenty-four years old and she was still living at home, in that crappy trailer, giving her parents every dime she made. She had even stayed at home while she was in college. She never went out. She never lived. Veema and I gave her first taste of real freedom."

The part about Spencer's parents confirmed what I was already thinking. But I didn't like what this Marin guy was insinuating about Spencer, like he was actually good for her. "You were playing games with her the whole time," I reminded him.

"Veema was the real instigator. I should've done something, I know. I should've stopped her, but Izzy just let—" Marin paused. "We had lunch together every day. That was Veema's idea—a few times Izzy tried to get out of it, but Veema would just snap at her and she'd fold. Veema was always telling Izzy what to do. She even put Izzy up to kissing me once."

"And you were just an innocent bystander."

"You don't know what Veema was like. She tried to push me around too. D'you know that she wanted us to get an apartment together? The three of us." Marin scoffed. "And she was always trying to push Izzy on me, like I was supposed to be in charge of her—her, I don't know, _coming of age_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It was just a joke. It wasn't serious. I wasn't even into Izzy. Not that there's something wrong with her. She's just not my type."

Somehow I found that hard to believe. "Who brought the pink fuzzy handcuffs?"

Marin was silent again. "It was me. But Veema's the one who held her down."

 _What the—_

"I don't even know what the hell Veema thought she was doing. She was just so angry at Izzy for the shit she'd pulled at the airports. I know that Izzy didn't want to come. I know that she was feeling iffy about the whole idea of going on vacation with us—and she had her heart set on Amsterdam. But what the hell? It was the Turks and Caicos. Who says no to that?"

"Explain to me the part about Veema holding Isabella down."

"We had a huge fight the day before the trip. Izzy completely lost it. Like she was out of control sobbing, like we'd broken her heart or something. I mean, come on. But she acted normal on the way to the airport. She was quiet, but I thought that was just her—the way she'd be sometimes. But then when we got there, she just walked away from us. Just walked away and wouldn't talk to us. Then there was that crap where she almost missed our connecting flight from Miami. D'you know that Veema made them hold the plane? Can you believe that? And Izzy acting all innocent. And we get to the island and she _still_ wasn't talking to us. She too another taxi to the hotel. She got there before us and disappeared with the hotel key. We couldn't even get into our hotel room. Finally, she came back and—can you imagine what it was like in that hotel room that night? The next morning, Veema was _lit_. She was so damn angry. And Izzy deserved it after that crap she'd pulled. But I still couldn't believe it when Veema attacked Izzy. Like _physically_ , attacked her. Izzy threw this lame punch, trying to defend herself, but Veema just pushed her down on the bed and held her there. Told me to go snorkeling or something. Said she had to stay back and 'discipline the child.' And I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Eventually Veema let Izzy up and I got Veema out of there. We just left Izzy in the hotel room, and when we got back all of her stuff was gone. She'd gotten another hotel room, but she was still in the same hotel—Veema found her on the beach. I talked to Veema and got her to apologize. And everything was fine after that. We went out to dinner. We even went snorkeling. Everything was fine. We joked about the handcuffs. _They were just a joke._ I was never going to do anything with them. But then, we got back and Izzy called in sick to work. The next day, Veema and I came in and there were these notes on our chairs from Izzy, basically telling us to go to hell. Veema thought it was a big gag. She thought Izzy was going to cave. Izzy was such a pushover. I was sure that Veema was right. But Izzy stood her ground. She never spoke to either of us again unless it was work related. The two of them were sharing an office, you now, and Veema kept coming to me, complaining. I thought Izzy was going to come to me for help, too. _I_ wasn't the one who'd held her down on that bed. But she never came. And then I left for grad school. I was so happy to get out of there. I was so sick of Veema. Every day at lunch, bitching about Izzy. It was awful."

Marin stopped, clearly done with his story.

And I didn't know what the hell to say. It was obvious that he was trying to throw the blame on Mehta. As for Spencer—

Well, I could see the Spencer I knew doing every single thing he said.

But nothing justified what had happened to her.

Marin and Mehta were right. Spencer couldn't press charges, not in the US at least. From what I knew of Spencer, I didn't see her ever going to the authorities. But if she found a sympathetic judge, she might be able to get a restraining order. It would help if she could establish a pattern.

Was there a pattern?

They had mind-fucked her. Of that I was certain.

But unless there was harassment after she tried to break off their friendship—was there?—there was no reason for a judge to issue a restraining order.

"Look, I'm being honest with you here," Marin started to say.

I cut him off. "You're a psychologist?"

He cleared his throat. "Training to be one."

"You think that someone like you belongs near patients?"

"I— But— You don't—"

I hung up.

-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-100-

Despite everything I'd learned about Spencer, I couldn't help feeling that I was still missing something. I'd gained little real insight. And if anything, I was even more worried.

I didn't _want_ to believe that she was involved in the murders.

I didn't _want_ to believe that she was as erratic—as unreliable and _strange_ —as everything suggested.

But wishing doesn't make it so.

Nichols and I were on our way back from the office of one of Milton's associates, when Spencer's name flashed across my phone.

"Who is it?" Nichols asked, noticing the way I hesitated.

"Keep your eyes on the road," I said, putting the phone to my ear.

At first I had trouble understanding her, she was crying so hard. "I'm sorry," she said, and something inside of me turned over. I couldn't believe she was really doing this. She was going to confess. "I shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry."

She wasn't confessing—

But if she wasn't confessing, what was she doing? Why was she so upset?

She wasn't thinking about hurting herself was she?

"Where are you?" I asked. Whatever was wrong—even if she was somehow involved in the murders—I'd help her. I'd get her a lawyer. There'd be mitigating circumstances. I'd find something—

She was crying too hard to answer, though.

And then a voice came on the line, introducing herself as a Ms. Maria Reyes, social worker. I gave her my name and my badge number, but she was reluctant to give me any details about what was going on. She said she had to verify my credentials.

"You understand," she said.

"Tell me the address," I said. "Then put Spencer back on the line."

Spencer was still crying when Reyes put her back on the phone, but I told her that I'd be there in ten minutes.

Nichols wasn't happy about it. "I thought you told me that she wasn't going to be a problem."

"She isn't."

"Then what the hell are we doing?"

"Just drive, alright?"

The address led to a rundown trailer park. The place we wanted wasn't hard to find. It was the trailer with all of the squad cars in front of it.

Spencer was on the porch, her arms wrapped around a kid who looked about thirteen. I could tell that she was still crying, but she was holding on to that kid for dear life.

The social worker, Reyes, was easy enough to spot, standing there, with her arms crossed, watching Spencer like every movement was being noted down for later use.

Yeah, I knew what it was like to have a social worker looking at you like that.

Flashing my badge at the fellow trying to hold back the crowd, I spared a glance for Spencer's mother. Even falling down drunk, she was giving two officers a run for their money as they tried to put her into one of the cars. Spencer's father—I figured it was her father—wasn't really resisting. But he wasn't really complying either, snarling at his beloved as an officer tried to insert him into his own car.

Joining the group on the porch, I caught Spencer's eye, and could tell that she was on a razor's edge. If Reyes tried to take that kid, Spencer would be sending the night in lock up, if not the hospital.

Fortunately, Reyes was open to discussing the issue. We did it over by the trash cans, keeping our voices down so that Spencer wouldn't hear.

Apparently, Spencer's parents were involved in some sort of domestic dispute. Spencer wasn't there when the incident occurred. And Spencer's brother wasn't involved either, but Reyes was dead-set on taking custody of him.

"That doesn't make any sense," I said. "He should be able to stay with his sister."

"We would prefer to leave him with family," Reyes said. "But after what I saw of her parents—"

"I can vouch for her," I said.

Reyes eyed me. "And how do you know each other?"

"She was a witness on a case. Just a bystander. It had nothing to do with her. But she's got a good job, and she's going to grad school. She has her own apartment. I've been inside. It's clean."

Well, clean _ish_. She hadn't finished unpacking.

"Where does she live?" Reyes asked.

I gave her the address.

She didn't look convinced. "Miss Spencer's so upset right now. I'm not sure she can handle this."

"I'll drive Spencer and her brother back to their place. I'll make sure that they're both okay before I leave. If there's any problem—any problem at all—I'll call you."

Reyes squints at me. "She's _just_ a witness?"

"Like I said, I vouch for her."

That seemed to satisfy Reyes.

We went back and explained the situation to Spencer, who was clearly trying to calm down, the news that no one was going to be taking her brother away from her obviously going a long way to relieve her anxiety.

"Just doing my job ma'am," Reyes said, fortunately missing the glare Spencer threw her way as she turned to go.

Spencer and her brother went into the trailer to grab some of his things. They only took a few minutes, and I used the time they were gone to go explain things to Nichols, who was still by the car, leaning up against the side, eyeing the show.

I laid out the situation, and he gaped at me. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, his voice low so that we wouldn't be overheard by our audience, several other denizens of the trailer park and a few lingering police officers. Spencer's parents had already been taken away.

"She needs my help," I said, shaking my head because I thought it was obvious. I did the right thing. I was _doing_ the right thing.

"What the— _seriously_ —what the _fuck_ are you doing?"

"What did you expect me to do? They were going to put her brother into one of those group homes."

"She's a _witness_."

"You don't think I know that?" I snapped, glancing back at the trailer to make sure that Spencer and her brother hadn't come out yet.

"You're fucking up our case."

"What am I fucking up? I haven't fucked anything up."

"Tell me the truth, are you fucking her?"

"What? No, man, why would you even ask that?"

"You're kidding me, right?"

I shook my head. "She just needed help, that's all."

Nichols snorted. "And you would do the same thing for any witness?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Bullshit."

I glared at him. "Look, I haven't fucked up the case. The case is fine. And now I'm gonna drive Spencer and her brother back to her place in her car. You're gonna follow so that you can drive me back to the precinct. We're just making sure they're okay. She's in no shape to drive right now. We would do the same thing for anyone."

"No, we'd get some rookie to do it."

"You don't want to do the drive, I'll get a cab."

"I got no problem with the drive."

"So do it."

"I am."

I could tell that he had more to say, but he was saving it for later.

"You're girl's ready," he said, looking over my shoulder.

"She's not my girl," I said, but I didn't bother to wait for his reply, heading back over to the porch so that I could help Spencer and her brother. They'd thrown his stuff into garbage bags.

Yeah, I knew what it was like, too, having to use _trash_ bags for luggage. The _shame_ of it.

"Let me drive you home," I said.

"I've got my car," Spencer replied, her voice still raspy from crying.

"You're too upset to drive."

"I feel better now."

And she _sounded_ better, but there was no I was going to let her get behind the wheel.

I expected more of an argument, but she just handed the keys over. "What about your car?" she asked.

"My partner's driving it." I held out my hand for her brother to shake, introducing myself. "Edward."

Her brother squared up his shoulders, telling me his name, and Spencer smiled down at him.

The pride she had in him was so obvious. She loved him with every ounce of her being.

I remembered that look on her face when I first showed up. She could kill alright, if it was for him.

We climbed into Spencer's car, her brother in the back and Spencer in the front passenger seat. The engine hesitated, but it eventually turned over, and then I was weaving the car through the remaining gawkers and out of the trailer park.

Spencer's brother waited until we were almost to the highway before he spoke up. "How do you know my sister?" There was a note of youthful hostility in the question, like he wanted to make sure that I wasn't taking advantage of his sister.

I wasn't sure how to answer. Had Spencer told him about the case?

She answered for me, telling him we met in a bar.

"What were you doing in a bar?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

"I have to go," she said. "For work, you know. Whether you want to or not, you have to go to happy hours sometimes. You don't have to drink, though."

I remembered the way that she'd acted the night she found Murota's body. She was so cagey about going to that happy hour.

Her parents were alcoholics. _That_ was why she was so hung up about drinking.

And she didn't want her brother to think that he would _have_ to drink just because everyone else was doing it. She wanted him to think that he had a choice.

Fortunately, her brother seemed happy with her response and he let it go.

"Thanks for coming to help," she said, looking at me.

"No problem," I said, not really wanting to get into it.

Because now that I was in the car with her, I was starting to have second thoughts.

"You're not going to get in trouble, are you?" she asked.

"It'll be fine," I lied.

I was grateful that she didn't push the issue. Silence filled the car, and as much as I was happy that she wasn't questioning me about my motives, part of me wished that it wasn't so quiet. I kept replaying Nichol's interrogation in my head. _What was I doing? Why was I doing it?_

I nearly missed the exit—Spencer had to point it out. But, pulling into her complex, I quickly found a paring place and got out to help her brother with the bags.

Spencer led the way to the apartment, and once inside, I was pleased to see that the place looked a little better. She quickly shoved some of the boxes into one of the corners, and told her brother that they'd pick up some more things for him at the store. In the meantime, she was going to clean out the dresser so he could put his clothes there.

She seemed so much calmer. So grounded now, with her brother back at her place. I had never seen her so placid, in fact.

And I had no doubt that she was going to hold it together, for him if nothing else.

My phone rang and, checking it, I saw that it was Nichols.

"That's my partner. Here with the car," I told Spencer.

She seemed a little at a loss for what to say. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

People had thanked me for my service before, of course. It always made me uncomfortable, not liking the attention.

But this time, with the words coming out of Spencer's mouth, it felt—

Different.

Like it was somehow _better_ coming from Spencer. Like I _wanted_ to help her. Not because it was my job, but because _I_ wanted to.

Which was all kinds of fucked up.

So I shook my head like it was nothing and left.

"What the hell are you doing?" Nichols asked me when I got to the car.

I wished to fuck that I knew.

 **AN: Thanks for reading.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"A beautiful spring has arrived_

 _Next to the cemetery."_ Santōka Taneda 322 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 11

She wasn't my type.

At least, to the extent that I _had_ a type, it wasn't Isabella Spencer.

She wasn't textbook pretty. She wasn't sweet. She wasn't sassy.

She was furtive. She was combative and strange. She was arrogant. She lived too much in her head.

She loved her brother.

She didn't like cops. She didn't like _me._

She sometimes saw things that maybe weren't there and lost track of time and hung out with dead bodies. She was either stupid or a criminal, and she wasn't stupid, so what did that leave?

She certainly wasn't some damsel in distress, not with that attitude.

She was a goddamned riddle. She couldn't give me a straight answer about anything. She seemed to like playing games. She went out of her way to avoid being honest with me.

She was fucking up my case.

I had no choice but to tell Nichols everything. I told him about Spencer's apartment and her mother. I told him about questioning her adviser and her coworkers. I told him about Mehta and Marin, about the island.

I didn't mention the diaries, though. I figured they were none of his business.

He told me that I should've been up front with him from the beginning.

"Did it even occur to you to check into her parents?" he asked.

No. It didn't.

Turned out that the trailer park where they lived was being sold. This little dilemma had sparked the argument that got them arrested. They owned the trailer, but not the park, and they were having trouble finding a company willing to move the trailer, because they'd made so many upgrades that the thing was too heavy to transport. They were going to lose everything.

But if there were any connections between them and the murders, we couldn't find it. None of Murota or Milton's business associates were connected to the trailer park deal or to anyone who lived there. And Spencer's parents had ironclad alibis for both murders.

"Looks like your girl's clear," Nichols said. "By the skin of your fucking teeth."

"She's not my girl," I said, again, wishing that the conversation would just end once and for all.

"She's weird," he reminded me.

"Never said she wasn't."

In fact, Spencer's strangeness was probably half the reason that I was so—

So intrigued. I wanted to figure her out.

Or so I kept telling myself.

"She doesn't hold a candle to Lisa," Nichols observed.

That was a low blow. Lisa was pretty on the outside, maybe. But that was it. There was a reason we broke it off.

He shook his head. "If you're really that desperate, I can get my ex- to hook you up."

"Not interested." And I wasn't. This wasn't about that.

"You can't do this shit."

"I know." How dumb did he think that I was?

"Really? Cuz from where I'm sitting, you nearly blew your career for nothing."

"My career?" I looked at him. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"The higher-ups are really looking at this one. If you're going to fuck it up, get yourself taken off of it. Now."

"Spencer's just a witness."

Nichols snorted at that, but a minute later, he sighed. "Isn't Jimmy's wife a family attorney?"

"Yeah," I said, wondering where he was going with this.

"Well, you could give Spencer her number."

I didn't answer.

"Just give her the fucking number, Eddie."

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"She's a friend of mine," I said, handing Spencer the card. "Well, the wife of a friend, really, but she's a good lawyer. I already told her that you might be calling."

"I can pay," she said, clearly worried about giving off the wrong impression. "I'm going to start looking for a part-time job—"

"She won't charge you an arm and a leg," I cut her off. She didn't have to explain herself to me. I knew what it was like.

I remembered some legal aid bitch laughing in my face when I told her that my mother couldn't afford a lawyer. I was ten years old.

"Just the leg," Spencer tried to joke, chuckling nervously.

And I could tell that she didn't quite know what she was doing. There I was, standing in her apartment on a Saturday morning. Her brother was outside on his skateboard. I had only come by to give her the card for the lawyer. I wasn't here in any sort of legal capacity. I felt strangely underdressed in my jeans and t-shirt, and I'd noticed the way that Spencer had eyed them, as if she wasn't sure what to do with this version of me. I knew how she felt—because I wasn't sure what to do with this version of her. This awkward, modest, unguarded—half-smiling, even—almost nice version of her.

I thought about all the different Spencers I'd met, and I wondered which one was real. If any of them were real.

"I wasn't lying about the garage," she said then, without any trace of the anger I usually detected. "I really thought that I saw someone. But I could have been wrong."

"I didn't come about that," I said, not wanting to talk about the case. I _couldn't_ talk about the case, not like that, not in my street clothes, not standing there in her apartment.

I was going to have to take myself off of the case. Despite everything I'd said to Nichols, I couldn't stay on it.

I needed to get out of her apartment. At the same time, I couldn't help wishing she'd ask me to sit down. Ask me if I wanted something to drink.

Glancing around, I saw the changes she'd already made for her brother, putting up some screens on one end of the living room.

It occurred to me that everything with her job, with the Institute, those diaries, her stupid decision to walk down that alley, and her contradictory story about what happened that night—they were all grounds for denying her custody of her brother. She was a mess.

At the same time, I could see it in her eyes. The realization that she had to get her shit together—for him, if for nothing else.

It reminded me of my mother. All of those times, she'd promised me that she was going to get her shit together, for me.

Only for her to break down again.

"So you're ok?" I asked, because I needed to be sure. I had vouched for her. That social worker had agreed to let Spencer take her brother because _I_ said it was alright.

"Yeah, my brother's great. He's outside, playing."

"No, I mean you. Are _you_ ok?"

She blinked, catching my meaning at last. "I'm fine."

"That's good." And it _is_ good.

Spencer wasn't anything like my mother. She had a good job and a college degree—hell, she was in _graduate_ school. She had problems, but she wasn't a drunk. That much was clear. And she certainly wasn't throwing herself at one man after another, like my mother had, dragging her kid along as an afterthought.

As far I could tell, there _was_ no man in Spencer's life, aside from her brother.

"Do you want some tea or something?" she asked.

"Sure." I accepted, even though I knew that I should probably just leave.

But I was intrigued by this new Spencer, the one glancing back at me almost shyly.

I had seen her angry. I had seen her afraid. I had seen her arrogant and indifferent.

I had never seen her like this.

Then, following her into the kitchen, an unsavory notion crossed my mind. It occurred to me that if her guard was really down, I could finally get the truth about her involvement in the case.

I knew it was wrong. It was a violation of protocol if nothing else.

And I didn't want to do that to her. I didn't want to take advantage of her trust.

I had probably gone too far as it was.

I was going to drink just one cup of tea and then go—I would leave Spencer for Nichols to handle—when Spencer turned around suddenly.

I wasn't expecting her to stop so quickly. I was right on her heels.

An apology was already on my lips, but before I could say anything, she was kissing me.

Which was all kinds of fucked up. It wasn't right. She was a witness in a case. It was—

I kissed her back.

It had been a while since I'd kissed anyone. Lisa had been so circumspect. She didn't actually enjoy kissing—at least not the way that I did it.

Spencer was just so eager, though. The way her fingers tugged at my hair. Like she genuinely wanted me.

It was a fucking compliment.

She felt unexpectedly good, there in my arms. It had been a long time, but I didn't think that was why it felt so—

So right.

Like she belonged there.

Like everything between us—all of the friction—it wasn't because of the case. It was because we were fighting _this_.

She wasn't my type. She and I didn't make any sense together. She didn't make sense, period.

But she was pulling me towards her bedroom, and I was letting her.

She had to push some books off of her bed—and I started to laugh, because _of course_ her bed would be covered in books, but then she was kissing me again and tugging at my jeans.

I started to panic when she stopped—thinking she was going to call this off, even though I knew damn well that I had no business being there with her—but then she said that she didn't have any condoms.

"I've got one," I said, my voice husky and my hands shaking a little when I reached for my wallet to take out the condom that Nichols had given me—that _asshole_ —the last time we went out drinking together, and he left me at the bar to go home with the waitress.

And by the time that I'd pulled out the condom, Spencer was stripped down to her underwear. I stood there, looking down at her like I'd never seen a naked woman before. I could see it again, that bit of uncertainty in her eye. She was always so nervous around me, and I could never tell if it was because I was a cop or because she was just that way—if she was just afraid of everyone—which wouldn't have surprised me, not after her parents, after Mehta and Marin.

"Are you sure?" I asked, because I wasn't going to be one of those assholes who took advantage of her.

She gave a little nod and I kissed her again.

Then, because I remembered that little speech of hers in the bookshop, I showed her that the Romans were all wrong about their aversion to pleasuring women with their mouths.

Spencer obviously enjoyed my demonstration, too, throwing herself on me when I'm done, biting my neck.

I try to make it last, but again, it had been so long.

It was over quicker than I would've liked, but then, just when I was about to go down on her again to make up for it, my cell rang.

"You probably have to get that," Spencer said.

"You didn't—"

"I'm fine," she assured me, handing my phone.

And even though I wasn't sure if she was telling the truth, I took the call, watching Spencer dress out of the corner of my eyes.

"Where are you?" Nichols asked.

"Uh—"

"They're raiding Freeling's office."

Freeling was one of Murota and Milton's associates.

"Right now?" I asked.

"They're already there."

I knew Nichols was expecting me to ask about back-up, but I had no business continuing on the case.

"Are you coming?" Nichols asked.

I knew that I was going to have to handle this sooner or later.

"Yeah, I'll be there in forty minutes," I said.

"Make it thirty," Nichols said, then disconnected.

"Gotta go?" Spencer asked, glancing my way.

I was already pulling on my pants. "Sorry, I've got something with another case," I lied.

She nodded and left me to finish dressing. By the time I came out, she had something wrapped in foil for me.

"Thanks," I said, feeling like an asshole, taking the pie from her—or maybe it was cake—but I didn't know what to say.

I paused by the door. "Take care of yourself," I told her. Because that at least I

"Sure."

"And your brother."

"Definitely."

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"The Feds are gonna take over," Nichols said.

I nodded.

"You don't look too upset about it," he observed.

I shrugged.

"You got something to tell me?" he asked, crossing his arms.

I shrugged again.

At which point he started cursing.

I waited until he was done, and then I told him that I was going to Butler about being taken off of the case.

"This Spencer woman really worth it?" Nichols asked.

I thought about his question.

I thought about what it meant.

His implication that I'd weighed the costs of being with Spencer against the potential of a relationship with her working out.

And I realized that it didn't matter. Unconsciously, I'd already made the decision.

I was never _that_ guy. There were no spring breaks in Mexico. No wild weekends in Vegas with yoga instructors. No crazy benders.

I followed the rules. I always did what I was supposed to—every damn time. I had never even smoked a joint.

I was a cop because the rules mattered to me.

It wasn't just Spencer's refusal to stay within her lane, her inability to accept the world as-is, that had me breaking the rules now.

It was _me_ wanting to throw caution to the wind, just this one time, to get something that _I_ wanted. Even if—especially if—it wasn't right.

Fortunately, Butler owed me one. To hear him tell it, I'd saved his life. Usually, I played it off as me just doing my job. But now that I was in need of a favor, I wasn't above reminding him of a certain drug-bust that almost put him in the morgue.

"You serious about this?" he asked me.

"If the Feds are taking over, then I don't really need to stay on the case, do I?"

"I don't see Nichols complaining about his caseload."

"It's not just that," I said.

"What then?"

I'd been hoping to avoid it, but there was just no way around it. "The witness—the one who found the bodies."

"What about her?"

"I maybe screwed up."

"You _maybe_ screwed up or you _definitely_ screwed up?"

"Definitely."

He started cursing. Apparently, my love life was a source of great consternation for those around me.

"You're lucky that I owe you one," he said.

"I wouldn't want to put you in a bad position."

He told me to go fuck myself.

But he also said that he'd take care of it.

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It was obvious that Spencer was surprised to see me, even though she was waiting with the door open. She had seen my beat-up old Ford from the window.

I know that it was pretty presumptuous of me to just show up on her doorstep like this. But I had a whole Saturday to myself and I wanted to see her.

"Hey," I said, smiling.

"Hey," she said, a little slowly like she was trying to figure me out, but she stepped back to let me inside her apartment.

"You're going to the movies?" I asked, noticing a laptop open on her coffee table with show times listed.

"With my brother," she confirmed, nodding.

"What are you seeing?" I asked. The last time I'd been to the theater, it was to take Lisa to some horribly unfunny rom-com that was being touted as a great date movie. It wasn't.

She shrugged. "Some comic book movie."

"Let me take you," I said, trying not to sound too desperate.

Spencer was obviously a little taken aback. "What?"

"Come on, it'll be my treat." I wasn't stupid. She and her brother were a package-deal. It would be a hell of a lot easier if had her brother's buy-in.

Fortunately, her brother seemed down with the idea. He came barreling into the room, announcing that he was cool with the idea.

Spencer's eyes went from me to her brother and back again. I just smiled.

And apparently, that was good enough for her.

We took my Ford.

I told her brother to call me "Edward," and proceeded to answer all of his questions about the life of a detective. Spencer sat listening in the passenger seat, giving me and her brother the side-eye and shaking her head every once in a while as if she wasn't quite sure what was happening.

I understood her misgivings, especially when her brother started asking me about whether or not I'd ever had to shoot someone. I bent the truth a little, answering him, but I figured that it was the right decision, saying that I hoped it would never come to that. Spencer started to relax and actually pitch in a comment here and there.

She refused to let me pay for their tickets or popcorn, and she had very decided opinions about the optimal seats from which to enjoy the movie. I noticed that she didn't laugh very often during the film—a tough critic, I suppose—but she seemed to enjoy it.

Afterwards, I convinced them to have lunch at _Dave & Buster's_. It wasn't really that hard of a sell, actually. In fact, I was a little surprised at the way Spencer's eyes lit up at the suggestion.

Turned out she had a fondness for Pac-Man and Gattaca. Who knew?

Back at her apartment, she invited me inside and offered me a soda.

It was perhaps the lowest maintenance date I'd been on since high school. And on the one hand, that made me feel a little guilty, because I wasn't really giving it my best. I mean, really, _Dave & Buster's_? On the other hand, it was going well. It was _easy_.

It occurred to me that maybe it didn't have to be hard. That maybe it wasn't _supposed_ to feel like work.

Spencer informed that she preferred the name Bella, not Izzy or Isabella.

I knew that we still had a lot of baggage. I still hadn't told her about talking to her advisor, or to Mehta and Marin. It was probably a mistake—but I was pretty sure that it would piss her off if she knew that I had talked to them.

Besides, I wanted to know what had really happened on that island. But I wanted her to volunteer the information. I wanted her to trust me enough to tell me of her own accord.

I did, however, tell her about being taken off of her case.

"Does that mean the police have given up?" she asked, clearly concerned. "That it's a cold case now?"

"No, but I can't be on the investigation if I'm involved with you."

She blinked at that. "Oh."

Spencer—Bella—was looking uncertain again, and I realized that I _should_ have told her right away that I was taken off of the case. I wasn't being very clear about my intentions.

Suddenly, I was nervous. It didn't help that Bella was looking anywhere but at me.

I cleared my throat. "So I was wondering if you were free for dinner tomorrow." We'd spent almost the entire day together. But I wanted to take her on a _real_ date.

"I've got my brother," she said. "I need to spend time with him right now."

I was more disappointed by her answer than I had any right to be. Until I realized how stupid that was. "Bring him with," I said, shrugging.

Bella was right. She needed to spend time with her brother. His whole life was just ripped apart. He deserved her attention.

She still had that look of uncertainty on her face. But something must have told her to give me a try.

"Sure," she said, glancing at me quickly and away again, so that a curtain of hair blocking her eyes from me.

It wasn't coyness on her part, I decided. Not _intentional_ coyness. But that way she had of avoiding my eyes certainly made me look forward to the few occasions when she'd meet my gaze.

And something about it reminded me of someone—or something. I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But whatever it was, it must've been a good memory, because I was like an idiot.

 **AN: The legal aid bitch was real. The situation was different, but wherever you are, legal aid bitch, fuck you.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"(In this neighborhood)_

 _Chanting the sutras_

 _Cannot drown out the jazz music."_ Santōka Taneda 95 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 12

"You were telling the truth," I said, laughing. Because yeah, Bella _was_ indeed a lightweight.

"I always tell the truth," Bella said, slurring slightly.

"You don't drink," I said. She was already tipsy and she hadn't even finished her first beer.

"You've seen my mother. Would you drink if you were me?"

I felt the rebuke, even though it was nicely put. I certainly got where she was coming from on that point.

But I was having a little more trouble understanding why she was so pissed about her comprehensive exams. She had passed her oral defense today. Apparently she'd gotten into some sort of argument with one of her advisers, though, and she was still angry about it.

Which was why we were at a bar, drinking—a pastime to which Bella was clearly unaccustomed.

Watching her fiddle drunkenly with her straw, I was struck again by a feeling of déjà vu. I felt like there was something I was trying to remember—

I started to laugh—because it was stupid of me, really—only to break off when I caught sight of a certain someone sitting at a table in the corner.

"Who is it?" Bella asked, noticing the direction of my gaze and craning her head around to see who had caught my attention.

"No one," I said, quickly finishing off my drink.

I didn't want to ruin Bella's night, but I was hoping that we could make it out of there without—

"Edward?"

 _So much for a smooth getaway._

Lisa. Perfect ex-girlfriend Lisa with not a strand of hair out of place or so much as a wrinkle in her chic little ensemble.

I nodded, greeting her as a brawny guy sidled up beside her. Just her type, complete with the polo shirt.

"This is my boyfriend," she said, introducing him. "Derrick."

"This is Isabella," I said, tucking Bella into my side, because two can play this game.

Not that it's a contest—Bella is by no means perfect.

Which is maybe why I'm so interested in the first place.

Derrick was clearly amused. "Isabella and Edward? Isn't that like in a movie?"

It took me a minute to catch the reference. Some vampire movie.

"Is this a joke?" Lisa snickered, classy as ever.

"Yes. We're dating as a joke," I replied, not interested in a pissing match.

"You wanna join us?" Derrick asked.

I almost refused, but something about the smirk on Derrick's face made me agree. "Sure."

But Bella had picked on my nerves.

"Do you want to go home?" she whispered in my ear, a conspiratorial look on her face like she was already planning a distraction to get me out of there.

"It's ok," I said, trying to sound nonchalant as we joined the table.

It wasn't that I had anything to prove to Lisa. I certainly heartbroken over her—I never was. It was more the idea of what she represented. Normalcy. Like the failure of our relationship meant that I wasn't cut out for a healthy relationship, which felt like a failure on my part.

 _To hell with normalcy_ , I thought. I was happier with Bella than I'd ever been with Lisa, and Bella certainly wasn't normal.

And maybe I was an asshole for thinking that, but it was the truth.

I still didn't understand a third of the things that Bella said to me, and she was constantly looking at me like I was this inscrutable puzzle that she was trying to figure out.

Maybe that was alright though. Better than alright, in fact. Because it was easy. And sometimes it even felt like we weren't _supposed_ to be able to understand each other.

"Things don't make sense," Bella said to me one night after we made love. I thought she was asleep, but she was lying there thinking. She was always thinking. It was like her brain never turned off. And it _troubled_ her, too—I could tell—she was troubled by the things that worried at her. "Things don't make sense," she said, her forehead creased. I had no idea just what she was talking about. She closed her eyes. "But maybe they aren't supposed to," she said.

 _Maybe they aren't supposed to._

I still had no idea what had her riled up—the specifics of it—but I understood what she meant about things not making sense.

In fact, it felt like something clicked when she said that. It was almost a relief even—

Because things _weren't_ always supposed to make sense. They just were.

With no explanation. No reason.

Which seemed sort of unkind—but it was true.

And she _got_ that, when _no one_ got that.

I sat at that table with Bella, watching her introduce herself to Lisa's friends, and I had to hold back the laughter, because we so obviously that neither of us belonged at that table.

I had never been good enough for Lisa or her friends. Not with a drug-addled mother or a job as a cop.

 _Oh, you're a cop_ , they'd say, with this look in their eye. Part of it was liberal suspicion, of course. I got the same thing from Bella.

But most of it was a kind of upper crust aversion to the working class that I never got from Bella.

Well, not once I really knew her. What I thought was arrogance on her part was really just awkwardness. Just strangeness.

Which made sense to me in a way, seeing how she grew up, seeing the kind of people she'd come from, and where she was trying to go in life. She didn't _fit_.

The funny thing was, I was pretty sure that she hadn't figured that out yet. I mean, she knew that she didn't fit—but she was still trying to figure out _where_ she fit. And it sure as hell wasn't with the likes of Lisa and Derrick. That was plain, with the glances she was casting around the table, like she was equal parts dismayed and annoyed at the artifice-in-denial, and trying not to show it.

She was giving it a go, though. And if she could try, then so could I.

"You're a cop?" Derrick asked.

I nodded.

"What's that like?"

I raised an eyebrow. "S'like any other job, I suppose."

"Really?" he chuckled.

"Meet lots of girls."

"I'll bet," one of his pals snickered.

"Is that how you met Bella?" Derrick asked.

I didn't see any reason to lie, and anyhow the ladies at the table weren't paying any attention. "Yep."

Derrick burst out laughing. "How's that?"

"Thought she was a murderer." I smiled. "You'll have to excuse me for a minute," I said, cocking my head towards the restrooms. I told Bella that I'd be right back, and left the table.

 _What're you doing?_ I asked myself. _Who gives a damn what Lisa and her new boy-think are up to?_

I was just being polite, introducing Bella to them and sitting down for a while. But enough was enough.

Apparently, I wasn't fast enough, however, because I got back to the table just in time to catch Bella rolling her eyes in obvious agitation.

"You ok?" I asked. I planted a kiss on her forehead, and was surprised to find her grabbing the front of my shirt and pulling me down for a kiss on the lips.

"Just great," she said when she drew away.

"It's getting late," I said. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Enthused by the suggestion, she kept a hold of my shirt while she stood up, and even tucked her head into my shoulder while we bid our adieus.

I wasn't used to her being so affectionate in public, and was about to joke about her staking her claim, when she kissed me again, pushing me back towards the bathrooms. A chorus of whoops from Derrick et al. followed us as Bella shoved me into the alcove.

"What—" I started, until I realized her intention.

For a split second, I thought of stopping her. We were technically breaking the law. And I am a cop.

It was pretty tacky, too. It was not at all the sort of behavior that I would've expected from Bella. I'd figured out pretty fast that while she had little respect for anyone putting on airs, she abhorred any hint of what she deemed _trashy_. "Trailer trash," to use her words. And it was so obvious that she was trying to distance herself from her past. From where she came from.

But it wasn't like we were hurting anyone.

At the most, we were pissing off perfect little Lisa and her perfect little friends.

At the most, I was thumbing my nose at all of the rules that I always had to follow.

It felt illicit and wrong.

It _was_ illicit and wrong.

But I was sick of following the rules, I realized.

Not to mention that it felt pretty damn good to be wanted.

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Bella and I had dinner with some friends of mine. _Real_ friends. Dinner with Nichols would have to wait until he closed her case—but I introduced Bella to some other people.

I kept waiting for her to introduce her to some of her friends. But she seemed reluctant.

"Is it 'cause I'm a cop?" I joked.

"No," she shook her head. "Of course not. It's just—they're not that interesting, you know. I just work with them. And go to school with them. They're not _interesting._ "

I laughed. "My friends aren't that interesting either. Doug spent the night talking about a drunken house party."

Bella smiled. "I thought he was funny."

So, I'd yet to meet any of her friends. In the meantime, we had discovered a mutual passion for film.

Bella was surprised to learn that I'm an aficionado of Kurosawa. I suppose that I deserved that after all of my cracks about her interest in Buddhism. I'm not a complete philistine, though. And really, I was just trying to get under her skin—a _suspect's_ skin.

I started watching kung fu and samurai movies when I was a kid. It was one of the few things I had in common with my mother's boyfriends.

At first, I thought Bella was just humoring me when I suggested a "Samurai Saturday." We spent the whole day watching _Yojimbo_ and _Sanjuro_ and _Seven Samurai_. I expected her to call a stop to it at some point, but she made it through all three films, and even yelled out encouragement during _Seven Samurai_.

Then, the following weekend, she surprised me with a box-set of the entire series of _Zatoichi_.

"Kurosawa didn't direct this," I told her.

"Yes, but did you know there's a _Yojimbo Meets Zatoichi_?"

And I could tell she wasn't faking it.

It felt _nice_ to have a girlfriend who was genuinely interested in the things that I was interested in. Which sounded pretty sad, when I reflected upon it. But I decided not to get hung up on that. I was allowed to be happy for once.

For my part, I was a little surprised to learn that Bella was a fan of noir, especially given her view of the police. (But then, it occurred to me that her fondness for noir could go a long way towards explaining just that.) She was clearly embarrassed to admit the direction of her tastes, like I would think less of her for having a copy of _The Glass Key_. Which just went to show how little I knew her.

Her brother was the one who outed her, tipping me off to her stash in the bottom of her bedroom closet—and an ample collection it was too, with _Laura_ and _Mildred Pierce_ and _Double Indemnity_ and _The Maltese Falcon_ being just the tip of the iceberg.

It even made me wonder for a minute why she would bother trying to hide something like that. A whole box of DVDs stuffed in the bottom of a closet, the way other people tried to hide their porn. Why would she be embarrassed by that?

What else was she keeping secret?

And then I felt guilty. She wasn't a suspect anymore. I wasn't a cop looking for a killer. She was my girlfriend.

But it was clear that Bella was intensely private about some things. It was a strange contrast, considering how she would just throw the craziest things out there sometimes, like she was trying to get a rise out of me. Trying to push me away—trying _scare_ me away. But it occurred to me that those scare tactics were just another way of Bella trying to protect herself—of protecting her privacy.

For instance, one day she asked me: "How do you know you're not just a brain in a vat?"

It took me a minute to process her question. "What?" In defense, I was half-asleep. We had just made love and I'd had a long day.

"How do you know that you're not just a brain in a vat?" she repeated herself.

I tried to blink away the sleep. "Like in _The Matrix_?"

It was obvious that I had annoyed her. " _The Matrix_ ," she said, her voice sarcastic. "Whatever. How do you know that you're really you? Here? In this body?"

"Are you serious?"

Judging by her silence and the way she slid across the bed, it was the wrong response.

"I just know," I said, because I had never really given it much thought.

"Just like that?"

"Yep." Did she really waste time worrying about this?

She must have, I suppose, because she sounded unsure. "But how do you know that you're not dreaming?"

"I can tell the difference between a dream and reality."

To me, this was commonsense. It was easy. Some people had trouble, but not me. Not people like Bella.

 _Did_ Bella actually struggle with this?

"You really can't tell?" I asked, rolling over to look at her.

"Zuangzhi said _'Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.'_ " She quoted the line like she was reading from the telephone book. Like she was totally serious.

"You think you're a butterfly?" I asked, not freaking out yet, because I didn't think that she could possibly mean it.

"The best dream-sex I ever had was with a butterfly."

I started coughing, choking on my own spit, because whatever I'd expected her to say, it certainly wasn't that.

She clarified. "It wasn't really a butterfly. It was like an alien, but pretty, and human-sized, like from that movie _The Abyss_."

By then, I'd stopped coughing. But I wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't screwing with me. "You have a thing for butterflies?" I asked, keeping my tone level.

"I _hate_ butterflies," she replied quickly. "They remind me of those paper fairies the Cottingley girls were messing with. Creepy bitches." I could feel her shudder. "But it _was_ good sex."

I decided that she had to be talking in her sleep. That was the only thing that could explain this conversation.

"Are you asleep right now?" I asked her.

Bella sat up. "That's just it!" She clearly wasn't asleep. "How do I know? You're not supposed to be able to read when you're asleep, but I can." She was on a roll, the words falling out of her mouth a mile a minute. "And they say that no one ever wonders if they're really asleep when they're actually awake, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I'm awake and I wonder to myself if I'm really asleep."

I didn't know what to say. So I just watched in her in the dark staring back at me.

"Doesn't that ever happen to you?" she asked at last.

"No." I couldn't lie to her.

"Oh."

I didn't want to hurt her—and I wasn't absolutely sure that she wasn't screwing with me—but the things that she was saying weren't entirely _normal_.

Then, I felt like a jerk for judging her. _Who am I to decide what's normal?_

Sounding like she thought an explanation was in order, Bella tried to backtrack, telling me about some ancient sect she was studying, and how they thought we had everything backwards, that we were really awake when we were asleep and vice versa.

"I don't think that's how it works," I told her.

"How would we know?"

"We just would." Because we _would._ Otherwise, what would be the point of anything?

I couldn't tell if she agreed, or if she just went along because she thought it was what I wanted to hear, or if this was her laying the groundwork for pushing me away.

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I stared at Bella in disbelief. I couldn't believe this was happening.

"Is it because he took something that belongs to you?" she asked.

And I could tell that she was serious. I could practically see the wheels turning in her brain as she tried to figure it out. She honestly didn't understand why I was so angry.

"You buy food for us all of the time," she said.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "Your parents are alcoholics. Do you really think that your thirteen year old brother should be drinking?"

Said brother was currently in hiding after I found him drinking one of my beers. _Coward_. He ought to have stood his ground.

But why should he, when he had his sister running interference for him.

"Is it because he's only thirteen?" she asked.

"Fuck yeah." But her brother's age was only the first thing on the list, because this was all kinds of fucked up. The fact that she didn't see that, was the biggest problem of all.

"So if he was older, that would be okay?" she asked.

I took a deep breath, trying to reign in my temper. "How is it possible that you don't understand this? Of anyone, I would think that _you_ would understand this." She barely drank, for God's sake.

"It's not for me to tell other people what to do."

 _What?_

"You're his fucking guardian," I snapped. "It _is_ your job to tell him what to do."

What the hell was she doing?

She wasn't some deadbeat parent. I knew that. She _cared_ about her brother—probably far more than she cared about anyone else. She'd take a bullet for him. I knew that.

So why was she defending him? What wasn't she getting?

 _Just like your mother_ , I thought—and I shut that down immediately. Bella was nothing like my mother. She wasn't a drunk—

"How old would he have to be then?" she asked, a note of genuine confusion in her voice.

"The legal drinking age is twenty-one," I replied harshly, in full cop mode.

Bella's confusion disappeared. "Twenty-one?" she sneered. "He's probably already old enough to get a girl pregnant. He can enlist in the military and _die_ for our country at the age of eighteen but he has to wait until he's twenty-one to drink?" She shook her head. "He can buy cigarettes and vote an idiot into the most powerful position in the world at the age of eighteen but he has to wait until twenty-one to drink?"

"That's the law."

"The _law_? Who cares about the law?" Bella switched gears then, an imperious look coming over her. "I've shoplifted," she said. "You want to arrest me?"

"You _shoplift_?" I couldn't—

I thought I knew her.

I knew that she was _different_. I knew that she liked to thumb her nose at authority, but I thought it was just for show. I thought—

 _Who is she?_

"Shoplift _ed,_ " she clarified. "Past tense. But I've done it."

Christ, she sounded _proud_ of it.

"Why'd you stop?" I wanted to know. "Why don't you go out shoplifting with your brother right now?" I snorted. "Hell, pick up some meth on the way."

She finally had the good grace to look abashed. "Ok, now you're blowing this out of proportion."

"So there _is_ a limit? Thank God! Why stop at meth, though? Why there? Isn't that a little arbitrary of you?"

She looked chagrined for a moment, but then her face cleared. "He's his own person," she declared. "I can't tell him what to do."

"He's thirteen. And you're going to lose custody."

There. I said it.

She sobered up immediately. "I don't want to lose custody."

"Could have fooled me."

"I'm not going to lose custody. Everything I've done—everything I'm _doing—_ is to keep custody."

"You know the court could petition me," I warned her. "They could ask my opinion. And up until now, I'd only have good things to say."

The expression on Bella's face was equal parts shocked and furious. "You can't say anything that might hurt my case."

"I wouldn't have a choice."

"Of course you'd have a choice. What the fuck do you think I'm having sex with you for?"

I stared at her.

What had she just said?

 _She didn't mean it_ , I told myself _. She was just trying to hurt me because she was angry._

But she meant it alright. I could tell that she one hundred percent serious.

And that would make her—

I shook my head, refusing to accept it. "No, you can't honestly think that I'd—"

 _Fuck_.

If she was just having sex with me because I helped her keep her brother, what did that make me?

Bella scoffed. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that you just couldn't help yourself? That you were so enamored of a piece of trailer trash like me that you were willing to throw caution to the wind? Please, I know what you think of me."

How could she think that?

"You're not trailer trash," I said.

"No, I'm just crazy. I see things that aren't there, isn't that what you said?" Her voice was bitter. "I make shit up to get attention. I'm lonely. I'm the perfect prey."

"Prey?" I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

I _had_ accused her of seeing things. Of attention-seeking.

"Vulnerable and needy," she replied. "And who the fuck am I going to complain to when some cop hits on me?"

I swallowed. "Is that what—"

"Why the fuck else would you be with me? I don't exactly look like 'cop girlfriend' material."

Something inside of me snapped. "That's why. Because you aren't. Because you haven't got anything to do with that world. Because maybe I want to forget about all of the sleazy, fucked up shit I see all day long."

 _What have I done?_ I wondered.

I had risked my career for her. To be with her.

I was falling for—

"I can't believe you," I said. "You think that I—" I felt sick. "Do you know what that makes me?"

Let alone what it said of her.

"Do you know what that makes _you_?" I hissed.

I wanted her to deny it.

"Is that really all you think of me?" I asked, giving her another chance.

Didn't she know how I felt?

She was crying—and I wanted to be happy about that—happy that something could get through to her, if only because she couldn't keep playing games with her brother's welfare on the line.

But I couldn't help feeling it was all a waste of time. Because she'd already said too much.

I had wanted her to want me. I _thought_ she wanted me. And it was all an act.

Well—I felt something inside of me turn cold—I could handle that. I could handle the truth about her and me.

She needed to get it together, though, for her brother if nothing else.

I couldn't—I _wouldn't_ —be an accomplice to that.

"You're right about one thing though," I said. "You can't afford to look crazy right now. _Memoirs to Prove the Non-Existence of the World_?"

I shook my head, remembering that little notebook of hers.

"You can't let people see shit like that," I said. "You can't talk like that. Or you _will_ lose custody."

Her eyes flashed, and I wanted to believe that I got through to her. But I had to be sure.

And goddammit, I _was_ angry. Why couldn't she get it together?

"I would've thought your brother would be enough," I said as she turned to go. "If not me, then your brother would've been enough to make the world worth living in. To make it _real_."

Her jaw clenched, but she didn't answer.

And I stood there with my arms crossed as she collected her brother and left my apartment. I could hear him asking her what had happened, asking if it was his fault, arguing with her. She just ignored him.

It _was_ his fault, in a way.

But that was bullshit, of course, because I had been fooling myself.

 **AN: Thanks for reading.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

" _In the grass trampled by the horse:_

 _Flowers in full bloom."_ Santōka Taneda 98 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 13

Nichols went easy on me.

"Sorry to hear that," he said when I told him that Spencer and I were over.

Then he dropped it.

I deserved an earful. But I suppose he figured that I already knew what a colossal ass I'd been. He didn't need to add to it.

There was no need to mention the situation to my supervisor. I had been taken off of Spencer's case and I wasn't going to be put back on it.

So, I did just what I'd been doing before I met Spencer. I got on my life.

It wasn't as if we were serious. We had been dating for only a few weeks. I hardly knew her.

 _Obviously_.

In fact, I thought it was pretty safe to say that I didn't know her at all.

Or rather, what I knew added up to a list of reasons why it would never have worked out. Reasons why I was wrong to get mixed up with her in the first place.

Never mind that she was a witness in a case of mine—at one point a suspect—she clearly had some mental issues. She wasn't all there.

Christ, I had her advisor and her supervisor and Veema Mehta—not to mention her own mother—all of them telling me that Spencer had a screw loose.

I had the evidence of _my own eyes and ears_.

Imagining that there was someone in that garage with her. That damn notebook she was keeping to prove that the world didn't exist.

That wasn't normal.

And the things she'd say sometimes. Like not knowing the difference between being awake and asleep. Was she serious about that?

Even leaving aside the ethical issue of dating a witness, what the hell was I doing with Spencer? I didn't need that kind of trouble in my life. I didn't need the work of looking after someone like that—

Like my mother.

Which was all kinds of fucked up when I thought about it.

But it was also easier in a way, because it fostered a kind of self-pitying excuse: I got mixed up with Spencer because I couldn't help it. Because she reminded me of my mother. Because I've got a hero complex, or something, and I thought that I could save Spencer from her drunken parents, the same way I used to think that I could save my mother from her drunken boyfriends.

And they were both kind of crazy—the things they'd say—the morbid, dark little fantasies they seemed to enjoy.

My mother never trusted me either. She never loved me either. If she had really loved me, she never would've—

Which was all kinds of messed up.

Spencer wasn't my mother. They were nothing alike.

Spencer had a college degree. She was getting her doctorate, for God's sake, and she had a nine-to-five job. She didn't have a problem with alcohol, like my mother. Spencer just had a problem with reality.

 _Which is even worse, isn't it?_

Spencer loved her brother. Of that I was certain. Definitely cared for him more than she ever cared for me. Loved him enough to—

 _What kind of a monster is jealous of a kid for his sister's affection?_

But I didn't want to think about that, did I? Didn't want to consider the implications of _my_ actions. _My_ responsibility.

I'd screwed up, sleeping with her. I knew that.

It wasn't just that, though, was it?

I was angry at Spencer for keeping things from me, but I kept things from her. I never told her about talking to her boss or her advisor. I never told her that I'd spoken to Veema Mehta and Jack Marin. I never breathed a word about the island. I wanted her to come to me of her own accord. To open up.

But how could I blame Spencer for holding back when I wasn't honest with her?

The fact was that she had played me from the beginning. I was such an idiot for falling for that whole act.

And if I had misread her about that, then maybe I had misread her about the case as well.

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It shouldn't have shook me like that.

Spencer was free to go out and enjoy herself. She was free to go to a bar.

But here she was, drinking and laughing in a bar with her friends. Friends she had never bothered to introduce to me.

 _What else did she keep from you?_ I wondered.

And that was my excuse for walking up to her. I was still off of her case, but that didn't mean that I didn't have an unofficial interest.

"Isabella?"

She was smiling when she turned around, laughing at something one of her friends had said. She missed no more than a beat before she greeted me and asked me to join her table.

It was a little rough—

Seeing how easy it was for her. Like she wasn't even phased by seeing me.

"I don't want to interrupt," I said, glancing at the other faces at the table.

Bookish, college-types—Spencer's friends from the college, I supposed—a far cry from Mehta and the Lisa's of the world. A couple of them told me to sit down while the rest nodded their approval.

I sat.

Spencer introduced me as a friend of hers, only hesitating for a minute on the hard part—that made me feel slightly better—then she explained that the gathering was for a writing group for grad students.

She said something else and I had to bend low to catch it.

"What?" After the introductions, the rest of the table had continued whatever they were talking about before I showed up. Some arcane historical discussion, and it was hard to hear in the bar with all of the excitement over the game on the tv.

Spencer grinned shyly at me. "My advisor liked my chapter," she said.

My expression must've given away my confusion, because she explained, "I turned in the first chapter of my dissertation, and my advisor liked it."

And I got it.

I knew how much this meant to her. I could tell that it really mattered, too—she looked happier than I'd ever seen her.

I smiled. "Congratulations." I clinked my beer to hers, still a little taken aback by her obvious happiness. "So your first chapter? What was in it?"

Her smile faded and she glanced down. "It's boring. You wouldn't want to hear about it."

"I want to hear," another guy at the table said, clearly eavesdropping. "You didn't tell us."

The rest of the table joined in.

It had rankled me—seeing her with them, thinking that they knew her better than I did—but I realized that they didn't really know her either.

Did anyone know her?

"Uh, it's about Hypatia," she said, looking uncertain.

A round of groans went around the table then, and Spencer's face dropped even further.

"What's with the attitude?" I asked, trying to figure out what I was missing.

Spencer rushed to make excuses. "It's just that tons of historians have tried to figure out who killed Hypatia."

I had no idea who this Hy— _Hypatia?_ —person was, but everyone else at the table clearly did.

Spencer shrugged. "She's a very popular topic. And that dog is dead, so stop beating it, right?" Spencer paused. "Unless, of course, you're going to nail it." Spencer grinned again.

Clearly, Spencer had nailed it. That was why she was so happy.

"So who killed her?" I asked.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Spencer asked, sounding strangely reluctant given her excitement. "It's not that interesting."

"I want to hear."

I did, too. I wanted Spencer to tell me something about herself. Or at least something about a subject she was genuinely interested in.

She went on for a while, explaining her theory. I couldn't lie—she lost me in the details.

But I could see it lurking in the background, the something that she'd been hiding from me. The real her.

Why would she hide this from me? Why would she be shy about this?

It almost made me angry, thinking that she had never trusted me—

She had taken off her glasses to clean the lenses, and she glanced at me under the sheet of her hair.

It hit me then. I realized who it was she'd been reminding me of.

I'd never realized before just how beautiful she was.

I wanted to ask her if she knew that she looked like Veronica Lake. I had never been a fan of old movies—but I remembered Veronica Lake, alright. Who wouldn't? _A dame like that_.

But I had no right commenting on Spencer's looks. Not anymore.

As if she'd even care.

"How've you been?" she asked, sounding hesitant again, glasses back in place. She had told me once that she hated contacts. It occurred to me that it was just another way of keeping people away—her glasses like a wall.

I realized that we'd been sitting in silence. I shrugged.

"You look happy," I told her, because she did.

"I am," she said.

"How's your brother?" I asked.

I genuinely cared about the answer. I didn't just miss her—I _could_ admit that I had missed her—I had missed her brother, too.

I had been worried about him.

I remembered what it had felt like to be abandoned by all of my mother's boyfriends—I had actually liked some of them.

"He's good. We're good," Spencer said. She paused again. So hesitant—that wall up again, not trusting me.

But then she said, "My brother's seeing someone. You know, to help with everything. And we're going to a support group. Both of us."

I was surprised, to say the least. Part of me had even wondered if Spencer was letting her brother take advantage of her, the same way she let Mehta and Marin and her parents take advantage of her.

Yet here she was, making him get own up to his problems.

And she was getting help, too.

"I'm happy for you," I said, smiling.

She was doing it. She was getting her life together.

Maybe she thought that I was patronizing her, though, because she was looking down again, looking embarrassed.

"Hey," I brushed her shoulder. "Don't do that."

"What?" She shrugged, like she didn't know what I was talking about.

"Whatever you're doing in your head right now," I said. "Who gives a shit what I think? What anyone thinks? You're celebrating tonight, right?"

She nodded.

I wished that I'd met this woman while we were dating.

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I was supposed to stay out of it.

But I had vouched for Spencer with CPS. I told myself that I had a right to check-up on things.

The case manager told me that Spencer's parents had had their incarceration extended—again.

While I knew that this would be good news for Spencer, I also knew that she had to feel conflicted over it. I fought the urge to call her. It wasn't my place.

I was sitting at my desk, playing with my phone after a long night on the job when Nichols dropped a box on the floor and plopped down in his chair with a sigh.

"Looks like we mighta found Murota's killer," he said.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Greg Hudson just killed himself."

I snorted. "Killed himself? You sure about that?"

"Medical Examiner's pretty sure. There was a suicide note. He even updated his will and tidied some stuff up at work."

"Did he confess to killing Murota and Milton in the note?"

Nichols shook his head. "No. He just says how sorry he is and that he wishes he could've done more."

"Done more? More about what?"

Nichols shrugged. "About whatever Murota and Milton got mixed up in, I guess."

"Dirty money? Offing yourself seems a pretty extreme reaction if that's all there was to it."

Nichols started going through the box at his feet. "I'm not happy about it. But it looks like the higher-ups are content to pin the murders on Hudson. It'll make it easier for them to prosecute on the money angle. Juries don't like loose ends."

I certainly understood that. I didn't like the idea of them closing the case so quickly, though. Not if there was still a murderer out there.

Nichols whistled. "I still can't get over the pictures these guys collected."

He handed me a stack of pictures. The postcard on top showed a woman cowering away from a phantom-like entity hovering in the air.

"I'm not on the case anymore," I reminded him.

"And I just saw you screwing around on your phone."

"I was working all night," I corrected him.

"Well, since you're on your break now, you could at least give me a hand going through this crap."

I flipped the postcard over. It was still blank, but the name of the artist was printed at the bottom, along with the name of the painting: 'Utagawa Kuniyosi, _The Spectre of Nikki Danjō_.'

"Hey," I said. "Did it ever occur to you that these pictures might mean something?"

"Whaddayamean?" Nichols was busy going through some sort of appointment book.

"That they were symbolic or something."

"This isn't _The DaVinci Code_."

"You suffer from a lack of imagination," I complained. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

He made a face and went back to his appointment book.

I didn't have a good reason for thinking that there was anything to it. But I knew that Nichols had hit a dead-end. And it was clear that we were missing something about Hudson and his friends.

I typed the name of the painting into an Internet search engine.

"Well, look at that," I said under my breath.

"What?"

"This postcard—the woman in the picture—she remind you of anyone?"

Nichols sat up. "Like who?"

"She had to just sit there and watch her own son die, without lifting a finger."

"So?"

"So, she was some sort of nurse to the heir-apparent to the Date clan. The heir was still just a little boy, but the conspirators were trying to poison him. The poison was accidentally taken by her own son and she had to watch him die. She couldn't do anything about it, not without risking the heir's life."

"What's that got to do with Hudson?"

"Well, he just sat back and watched Murota and Milton die, didn't he?"

Nichols shook his head. "Sounds like a stretch."

I decided not to argue the point, and flipped through the rest of the pictures that he'd handed me. There were a few other postcards, photographs of Japanese temples and impossibly green vistas, with pagodas and ponds. A couple of photographs rounded out the stack, pictures that Hudson had probably taken himself while sightseeing around Japan.

I paused on a picture of Hudson with Murota, Milton and Baker. They were standing in Baker's backyard, a patch of greenery behind them. It was the same plot of earth that Baker had been ripping up when Nichols and I questioned him. I could see why he'd ripped it up, too. It was hideous—with creeping vines and leaves that looked like they had eyes—

I angled the photo for a better look.

It was the same ugly plant that had been delivered to Murota's place right before he was killed, along with a card showing a picture of identical vines and leaves.

"Holy crap," I cursed.

"Is this about picture symbolism again?" Nichols asked.

"Do you have the card from Murota's place? The one that came with the potted plant?"

"Is it important?"

"Do you know the name of the painting?"

Nichols just looked at me. "You know," he said, after a long silence, "I think I liked you better when you were just broody and surly. Now, you're broody and surly and you look for meaning in pictures."

"Come on—"

"You're just lucky," he said, reaching for his phone, "that Sanders is a meticulous note-taker."

A minute later, he had obtained the name of the picture from Sanders: Utagawa Kuniyoshi's _Snake Mountain_.

"Tell me this isn't the same plant," I said, angling my computer screen towards him so that he could compare _Snake Mountain_ to the photo of Baker's backyard.

"So Baker sent a potted plant to Murota, then ripped up his garden so we wouldn't connect the plant to him?" Nichols sounded unconvinced.

I read a description of the picture from the computer: The vines are coming to life to help Oiwa. That's Oiwa—" I pointed to the giant lantern-like head floating in the air, her hair trailing in wisps. "And that's her husband, Iyemon, trying to get away. He killed her. _Poisoned_ her, in fact."

I remembered the professor telling me how the poison had disfigured Iyemon's wife before her death.

"Murota's wife died—" Nichols started.

"And her family thinks she was poisoned," I finished.

"This is pretty farfetched."

"Baker just happened to be growing this plant in his yard. Someone just happened to send Murota a pot with _this_ plant growing in it, with _this_ painting on a card. And Murota's wife just happened to die under mysterious circumstances."

"Maybe Baker was trying to screw with him. It sounds like they got off on trying to scare each other."

"It justifies questioning Baker again," I said.

Nichols looked skeptical. "You're off of the case."

"I don't have to go," I said, hoping he would argue with me.

"You can sit in the car," he said.

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Baker wasn't at home and wasn't answering his phone.

More importantly, we didn't have a search warrant. But I wasn't above peering through windows.

"What're you doing?" Nichols asked.

"Looking for exigent circumstances."

"Good luck with that," he snorted, turning back towards the car.

"What's that?" I asked.

"You're kidding me," he said.

"There's something up with this guy," I said, pulling away from the window.

"Well, we can question him again when he shows up. But I don't think a judge is going to give us a warrant on the basis of an ugly plant."

And that was that.

We'd driven in separate cars because I was only supposed to be heading home after my long night.

"Get some rest," Nichols said, before pulling away. "I'll see about Baker. He's got another place up in the woods, you know. A cabin. I'll see if I can meet him there."

I nodded, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something was right here, in front of my eyes, waiting for me to see it.

Nichols was already gone, though. So I climbed in my car and started for home.

I knew it wouldn't do any good for me to push too hard against whatever it was that I was missing. I knew that the answer—this thing that I was missing—I knew that if I just let it alone, it would come to me.

But I also knew how any things had slipped through the cracks over the years because the thing that I was missing never showed itself.

Quickly crossing two lanes of traffic for the exit to the Zen Institute, I waved off a few angry honks and a middle finger, ignoring the voice in the back of my head warning me that interfering like this would hurt any case that might come out of it.

 _I'm just going to see if Baker's there_ , I told myself. _I won't even talk to him._

I would just see for myself how they were taking Milton's death at the Institute.

But the place was practically empty.

"Should-do was just here," a friendly groundskeeper explained, leaning on his rake.

"Really?" I sighed. "I thought we were going to meet here. I guess that I got confused."

"He left with that new woman."

I paused. "Sorry, what?"

"What's her name? The young one? Sanders?"

"Spencer."

He nodded. "That's right. Spencer. They got in Should-do's car and went off together."

 **AN: I put the Veronica Lake line in because the Bella in this story is a fan of** ** _The Glass Key._** **But Bella's the film noir fan, not Edward. So I admit that it doesn't really make sense.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"Each day we meet_

 _Both demons and Buddhas."_ Santōka Taneda 100 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 14

"I've got the address," Nichols said over the phone.

"Well, give it to me," I told him, pounding the steering wheel.

"You can't just drive out there."

"Like hell I can't. He's got Bella."

"He's _got_ Bella?" Nichols asked. "He didn't kidnap her, did he?"

"Would you just give me the address for Baker's cabin?"

"You owe me," he said.

"I _already_ owe you, and I'll owe you again. Just give me the address."

He did.

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My heart leapt into my throat when I came around the bend.

Bella was face-down on the ground, not moving, with Baker standing over her.

He raised his arm like he was going to take a swing at her just as I slammed on the brakes.

The tires spun, the car skidding on the blanket of red-brown leaves.

We were in the middle of nowhere, a forest surrounding us. A simple wooden cabin sat beside Baker's car.

An idyllic little hideaway.

"Oh, thank God you're here," Baker said, turning towards me as I rushed out of the car. "She just fainted."

"Hands up," I told him, my gun already trained on him.

He had already dropped whatever he'd hit Bella with—it looked like a spanner. But I wasn't taking any chances.

"What?" he feigned confusion. "But she needs help."

"Hands in the air," I ordered.

Baker slowly raised his hands. "Really officer, I don't know what's wrong with her. We need to call the paramedics."

I paused to check for Bella's pulse, my eyes on Baker as I confirmed that she was indeed still breathing, even though she appeared to be unconscious. Somewhat reassured, I approached Baker, turning him around so that I could pat him down and put him in handcuffs.

"You have the right to remain silent," I started.

"But what are you arresting me for?"

"Assault, to begin with," I said, and continued with the Miranda warning.

"You can't possibly think that I did this to her. You're wasting time—she needs help now!"

I chanced another glance at Bella, my heart seizing at the sight of her crumpled on the ground. She was already stirring, slowly regaining consciousness.

"Get in the car," I said, nudging him towards my vehicle.

After securing him in the backseat of my car, I turned to check on Bella.

She was sitting up, but she was holding a hand on her forehead and looking around as if she wasn't quite sure where she was.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

 _Of course._

Of course, she'd go off with a murderer and get knocked out and then ask _me_ if _I_ was okay.

Instead of answering her, I pulled out my phone. I knew that Nichols was already on his way, but Bella needed to see a paramedic.

It took me less than a minute to relay the information to the dispatcher. Hanging up, I glared at Bella.

"What?" she asked, sounding annoyed and sickly all at once.

"You idiot," I couldn't help blurting as I watched her, wondering if I would be stepping over a line if I touched her to make sure that she really was alright.

Despite her beleaguered state, she was clearly offended. "I am not—"

"What the hell were you doing getting into a car with him?"

"I'm not good on back-country roads," she said, as if it was just a matter of getting lost.

"Haven't you got any instinct for self-preservation?"

"How'd you know that I was here?" She ignored my question.

"I followed you from the Institute."

Deciding that I didn't care if I was crossing a line, I squatted in front of her, running my fingers over the back of her skull. I paused when she cringed. "How's your head?" I asked, stupidly.

"It's fine," she lied, taking a deep breath as if to will away the pain that she was obviously feeling.

"Thank God you didn't bring your brother," I said, realizing just how bad it could have been.

I was angry—not just at Baker—but at Bella. Because what kind of a fool goes off into the woods with a guy like Baker when there's a murderer running around?

"You should at least try to avoid being murdered for his sake," I said, bringing up her brother because I knew that would be best way to get to her.

Never mind what her death would do to me.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, as if trying to figure out what to say.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" I asked.

She swatted my hand away. "You're not a paramedic."

I felt almost giddy. If she could argue with me, then she had to be okay.

At the same time, I felt like shaking her and yelling at her for being so damn foolish.

I had been so worried—

She was alright, though. People sometimes developed complications from head wounds, but the paramedics would take care of her. She would be just fine.

Until the next time she decided to go off in the woods with a potential killer.

Why did she do stuff like this? Why did she walk through dark alleys in the middle of the night? Why did she go on vacations to strange islands with people who had no interest in looking out for her? Why did she keep taking care of parents who were taking advantage of her?

Why didn't she trust me?

Was she serious about everything she said? About not knowing the difference between reality and dreams?

"I maybe shouldn't ask you this when you've just been hit on the head," I said. "But maybe this is exactly the right time too." What better time to get the truth out of her? "D'you really think the world doesn't exist?"

A pained look crossed her face and I thought for a second that she wasn't going to answer, but she did.

"I'm not an idiot," she said. "I know how it sounds. But I didn't make it up." There was a pleading note in her voice, like she thought that I would doubt her. "The Gnostics didn't believe in the world. And other people said the same thing."

"The world exists because it has to," I explained. "There's too much we'd lose if it wasn't real."

She grimaced. "I haven't got anyone."

"You've got your family."

She shrugged.

I knew she didn't mean it. "Your brother," I reminded her.

Her eyes flashed to mine.

She loved her brother. But was she willing to give him up on the off chance that some heretics a couple of thousand years ago were right about the nature of the world? Wasn't he worth taking a chance that those heretics were wrong?

Wasn't _I_ worth it?

The wail of a siren sounded in the distance.

 **AN:**

 **Apparently, copious viewing of** ** _Law & Order_** **does not qualify a person for writing scenes like this.**

 **But thanks for reading.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.**

 _"Completely drenched—_

 _This stone_

 _Marks the way."_ Santōka Taneda 111 translated by John Stevens

Chapter 15

A search warrant of Baker's house didn't turn up much. But his cabin yielded a wealth of evidence regarding his strange obsession with the little game that he was playing with the other members of the Institute: He and the rest of his circle would use the ghost stories to torture one another.

Maybe Murota _didn't_ kill his wife, for instance, but Baker was using the Oiwa story against Murota, as a kind of blackmail. Baker sent him the plant from Utagawa Kuniyoshi's _Snake Mountain_ as another reminder.

The goal of the game wasn't clear. Was it just to make each other's lives miserable? Were they hoping to reap some sort of financial reward? What role, if any, was being played by Murota and Milton's dirty financial deals?

It also wasn't clear why Baker finally snapped, killing Murota. Baker made some vague references in his statement to the police—enough to dispel any doubt that he was responsible for the deaths of both Murota and Milton—but the defense was trying to have the statement suppressed. And the prosecutor was having trouble coming up with a plausible motive.

In the end, the prosecutor decided to go with the theory that Murota told Baker that he wasn't going to put up with any more blackmail, and Baker killed him. Milton and Hudson knew that Baker was responsible for killing Murota, and Milton wanted to go to the police. Baker killed Milton to stop him, with Hudson providing Baker with an alibi. The guilt over this eventually drove Hudson to kill himself.

It wasn't perfect, but with Baker not talking, it was the best the prosecution could do.

As for Baker's reasons for targeting Bella, there was no doubt about that. Baker actually wanted his attorney to present evidence in court that Bella was an _oni_ , a demon.

"I'm a demon-queller," Baker explained.

I told the prosecutor that Baker was faking. "He's trying to get an insanity plea," I said.

"Are you sure about that?" Nichols asked later, after we left the prosecutor's office. "Remember that stuff he said to us at his place?"

I remembered, alright. But I didn't want Baker getting off easy. I wanted him to go to jail.

Unfortunately, the stuff we found in the cabin lent itself to a defense of insanity.

The place was a cliché of obsession: Every surface was covered in pictures and passages clipped out of books. Most of the writing was in Japanese, but enough was in English for me to see that Baker had a mania for a certain kind of literature. Demonologies. Actual spells. Prayers meant to protect the user from spirits.

There were photos of Bella, too. Baker had devoted an entire patch of wall space to photographs of Bella going to and from work and school. In a few of them, he had drawn on top of her face, adding features that weren't there, darkening her hair and eyebrows, thinning her cheeks. Making her look like—

And in between the photographs of Bella, Baker had hung more of those prints he collected. In one, a swirl of gray-and-white figures dominated the center, with odd, frog-like creatures looking up from below. In another, gray, whispy figures seemed to be locked in battle with a woman in colorful robes trying to flee, her face locked in agony.

"Princess Takiyasha," Makimura said, pointing to woman in the robes.

Makimura was still on the case, and was helping to execute the search warrant of Baker's cabin.

Technically, I wasn't supposed to be there at all. So I was lingering in the background, doing my best to avoid any notice.

But it was hard—especially after I saw those photos of Bella.

"Princess Ta—?" I asked.

"Princess Takiyasha," Makimura repeated. "In the tenth century, I think it was. She launched a rebellion with the aid of Nikushisen, a frog spirit. A loyal retainer attacked her and her allies in the Sōma Palace. But even with Nikushisen's help, she was losing." Makimura pointed to the woman trying to escape. "So she cast one more spell, raising a ghost." Makimura nodded at the other print, this one dominated by a massive skeleton leaning over two men, with a woman off to the side, gloating and holding a scroll.

I looked back at the photos of Bella, and then again at the prints.

"That's crazy," I said. "Bella looks nothing like the princess."

"These guys would play _hyaku monogatari_ , right?" Makimura asked. "They would tell ghost stories, as a _game_?"

I nodded. "Baker said once that he thought Bella was violent. But I _know_ her. She's never—she would never hurt anyone."

In fact, she had let her parents and her brother and those so-called friends of her walk all over her. She never even fought back.

And now Baker. She just _went_ with him.

It was almost like _she_ wasn't violent, but that something inspired the people around her—

But that was bullshit. She was just a person.

She had pissed me off, yeah. She had put up walls and kept herself closed off. That made sense, though, given her history.

"Baker didn't even meet Bella until after he had already killed Murota," I said.

Makimura shrugged. "So leave it to the prison shrink to explain. Who knows why crazy people do crazy things?"

I shook my head. "Baker's not getting off for this. I'm not letting him take an insanity plea."

And I told the same thing later to Nichols, after we talked to the prosecutor.

Nichols held up his hands. "Hey, you get no argument from me. But your relationship with Spencer's already a problem as far as the DA is concerned. I just think that we should let the pieces fall where they may. _Without_ our interference."

Nichols got his wish, because a month later, Baker was murdered in a prison fight. The warden was still looking into the matter. The person responsible had yet to be identified.

I couldn't help wondering if some of the more unsavory members of Murota's family back in Japan had decided against leaving Baker's fate up to the criminal court system. It was easy enough to arrange a murder-for-hire in prison. Maybe Murota's family was worried about an insanity plea, too.

Despite an unsettled feeling about all of the unanswered questions, I was happy it was over. Not least because it meant that I could see Bella again.

I had been steering clear of her, knowing that our relationship was a liability when it came to prosecuting Baker. And while I was going to have some problems explaining that relationship, I knew that Bella was going to have a lot more difficulty explaining the incidents that made her so suspicious in the first place: The missing time the night of Murota's murder, her decision to take a shortcut down that alley, why she started going to the Zen Institute, how she forgot her purse the day that Milton was murdered.

All that still mattered, even with Baker dead, but not in the same way.

She was surprised to see me at her door, I could tell. But she let me inside.

"My brother's out with his friends," she said, playing nervously with her fingers.

Now that I was here, I wasn't sure just how to start.

I was going to tell her Baker, naturally. But what did that mean for us? Did it mean anything for us?

"You feeling better?" I asked, glancing at the place over her ear where Baker had struck her.

"I'm fine."

There was a tone of uncertainty in her voice, but that was to be expected. And there wasn't any point in putting off any longer.

I explained about Baker.

Her reaction threw me—she was always taking me by surprise, but I wouldn't have expected this. I wouldn't have expected her to _care_.

"He was a monster," I said, trying to decide if she would be okay with me pulling her into my arms. "You shouldn't cry over him."

I tried reasoning with her. "He killed two people. He was going to kill you."

And then I decided— _to hell with the rules_ —I pulled her towards me.

"It's not like he deserved to get out," I told her, breathing in the minty scent of her hair. "This is a best case scenario, because the trial—you know, the defense would've had a field day with us."

"It's not that," Bella said, breathing hard, like something was constricting her throat. As if she was having a panic attack.

"Then what?" Because I didn't get it. I didn't understand what was tearing at her.

"I don't know."

I watched her try to slow her breathing. I could see the visible struggle as she tried to fight whatever was trying to drag her down.

"You don't know why you're crying?" I asked.

Something seemed to come over her, then. Like a switch was flipped.

She stopped shaking and sat up straight, pulling away from me.

"Thanks for coming by to tell me," she said, wiping her face.

I couldn't believe that she was trying to get rid of me like this. I couldn't believe that she was just trying to act like everything was normal. Like she didn't just fall apart. Like there was nothing between us.

"I'm ok," she said, trying to smile.

And it pissed me off.

"I'm ok now," she told me, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince me. "I'll be alright."

 _No_. She wasn't going to get rid of me like this.

"I've missed you," I said.

She looked at me for a minute, half-looking like she wanted to hit me. Which was fine. Because if she was angry, then at least she cared.

"Just because I'm acting like the world is real doesn't mean I'm convinced," she declared, sounding mad. "But I'm not going to resent people for it."

That didn't really make sense to me.

It suggested, though, that she was thinking of giving me a chance. And this was one of her demands: That she not be pushed too hard.

I nodded.

Then she asked me that question from _Bladerunner_ , the one that's supposed to prove whether or not a person's really a replicant.

Was she serious?

"Isn't that from a movie?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Maybe the movie's wrong about how a real person would answer."

"Well, it would catch serial killers at least," I said.

She squinted at me.

I explained: "It's one of the early indicators for a person becoming a serial killer."

For some reason, that seemed to reassure her. "Damn right," she said, nodding.

So I gave her the correct answer, not bothering to point out that anyone who'd seen the movie would know how to cheat.

Fortunately, she was satisfied with my answer.

And that was how we started dating again. Or dating for the first time, depending on how a person looks at it.

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It took me a while to be honest about with Bella about everything. She deserved to know about the stuff we found at Baker's place, but I didn't want it messing with her head. And I knew it would.

I worked my way up to telling her about talking to all of those people in her life—her advisor and supervisor, as well as Mehta and Marin.

She wasn't happy about it. In fact, she was pissed.

Most of that was embarrassment, though. I could see that.

She felt like these people had a hold over her. Like they knew that she had a weakness, and because of that they could control her.

"I'm not stable, sometimes," she said, her hands shaking as she turned away. "People _say_ that I'm not stable."

"You seem fine to me," I told her. And she did, for the most part.

Because she was getting better. I could see the change in Bella, as she stood up for herself more and more. I started being able tell the difference between the two Bellas: The one who was feigning a bad tempered independence because she was trying to push people away, and the one who was actually defending the _real_ her, with hesitance and uncertainty, because she wasn't sure that she had a right, maybe, or because she was worried that people would turn on her.

I certainly saw the difference with her brother. She was still struggling with her role as guardian, but instead of just giving into him, she would flat-out tell her brother when she thought he was trying to manipulate her, which of course he was certainly guilty of doing. He still won some of those arguments. But he knew that I was watching, and that I wasn't falling for it.

Not that I was some sort of magic bullet that was fixing all of Bella's problems for her. She was working damn hard. She was going to Al-Anon. And she was really making strides with her dissertation.

"You're good at this," I said one night.

She glanced at me from the book she was reading. "You don't know that."

"But this is _you_ , isn't it?" I looked down at all of the papers and books covering the coffee table.

The next chapter of Bella's dissertation was due in a few days, and she'd taken some time off from work to finish. The place was a wreck. The mess on the coffee table spread into kitchen and her bedroom. It looked like chaos to me. And she'd barely spoken to me once for the last two days, even though I was sleeping over at her place, her brother being on a campout with his class.

She had completely thrown herself into her research.

And I had never seen her so calm.

Bella hitched a shoulder. "It's just taking a lot of time. I'm sorry that I've been so busy."

"You're happy though, right?"

She blushed.

It seemed such a strange thing to blush over.

"I suppose it feels _right_ ," she said. She pursed her lips. "I used to daydream, you know."

I shook my head. Everyone daydreams.

"A lot," she continued. "I used to daydream _a lot_. I'm just so bored, all of the time. You know?"

She looked at me. But I had to shrug, because _no_ , I wasn't bored. Not usually. And I didn't daydream more than anyone else. At least, I didn't think that I did.

"People used to make fun of me," she said. "When I was growing up. They _still_ do. Like it's some sort of crime to read so much. Or to think that books matter. To use a book to defend a decision you make, even though people use the Bible to make decisions all of the time." She squinted at me, as if waiting for me to argue with her. "How do you know what to do? You think that it's _you_ making decisions, but the ideas don't just come from inside of you. You're not _born_ with your ideas. They come from everything we're told. Everything we read and see. And you can't tell whether you're being fair or not—whether you're being objective—unless you _know_ what's determining your decisions. An archaeology of knowledge. That's a book, too. Did you know?"

I shook my head.

She shrugged. "Well, it doesn't matter. The point is, you have to be able to trace your ideas. Otherwise you're just unconsciously making decisions. According to unconscious bias. And that's awful. That's like what the Gnostics said about being asleep. Trapped in Samsara and Maya."

She had lost me again.

"But I try to name everything. I want to be _conscious_." She tapped her lapton. "It's like historical research. You have to name all of your sources."

She sighed. "No one wants to hear about that in real life, though. When you're talking to people, they just want to know if you want to go to the movies, maybe, or to happy hour. They don't want to hear about all of the factors involved with making the decision. They don't want to know about how the Athenians said they kept going to war with Sparta because they were too sober during the peace talks, but how that never made sense to me because drinking always made my parents so angry. People don't want to hear about any of that. They just want to know if I'm interested in happy hour."

She grimaced. "So I'd get bored. All of the time. _Bored_. And I know that's my fault. I know that I'm the unsocial one. The one who doesn't fit in. And the _things_ I say—it made people think I'm strange. So I try to keep my mouth shut. But I'm so _bored_. Every minute. So bored."

She ducked her head. "So I would daydream. It's not good for you, though. Daydreaming. It makes you forget the world. Makes you forget about what matters. You even lose time."

She stopped there, pursing her lips again, as if she was afraid that she'd said too much.

I didn't quite understand everything she'd said. But I thought that I got the gist of it.

"You're not bored now?" I asked. "With your research?"

She glanced back up at me. "No. Not now."

"Well, then, that's good isn't it?"

"But it's just a dissertation." She glanced around the room. "What happens when it's over?"

And I realized that she was serious. She was honestly afraid of what would happen to her when her research was over, and she was bored again.

"We'll figure something out," I told her.

She looked uncertain. "It's not your problem."

"We'll figure it out," I said.

I don't think that I had her convinced. But she was willing to let it go for the moment. And that was good enough for me.

The end.

 **AN: Thank you for reading.**

 **The paintings in this chapter are Utagawa Yoshikku's** ** _Night Parade of One Hundred Demons at the Sōma Palace_** **and Utagawa Kuniyoshi's** ** _Ghost Skeleton._**

 **The Bible reference is directed at all of the anonymous reviewers who've accused me of including quotations just because I want to use the books on my shelf, as opposed to actually being a fan of literature who believes it should be shared, or who thinks that it should actually be used to think about the problems we face.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: Meyer** **owns Bella and Edward's characters** **. I own the rest.**

" _The breeze from the mountains_

 _In the wind bell_

 _Makes me want to live."_ Santōka Taneda 356translated by John Stevens

Epilogue

We had been arguing.

Bella wanted to go back to the Zen Institute. She felt like she needed to apologize to Kennyo Wada.

I told her that that didn't make any sense. It wasn't like she'd hurt anyone.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow responsible for _disrupting_ the place. Like she brought something there with her.

"It's like there's a storm inside of me sometimes," she said. "That's why I started going there in the first place. I tried to meditate, thinking it would help. But it just got worse."

"Baker was the one with the problem," I told her. "And he was messed up long before you got there. Him and Murota and the rest of them. It had nothing to do with you."

"You don't think it was strange that _I_ was the one who found Murota? And then Milton?"

"Murota was a coincidence. Baker was targeting you with Milton. It wasn't your fault."

Bella shook her head. "It's part of a _pattern_ though. It's like I _do_ something to people, and I'm not even trying. I _make_ them worse."

I had to stop myself from telling her that I thought that sounded crazy. She didn't need to hear that word from me.

"People are responsible for their own actions," I said.

"Then I took _advantage_ of the place, didn't I?" she asked. "I went a few time and then just dropped it. I _used_ them. Used the place and Kennyo Wada."

"You didn't _use_ them. You _tried_ something. It didn't work. You moved on."

But I could tell that she wasn't convinced.

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Bella was so adamant about going back to the Zen Institute. I was worried, though. She was getting her life together. She was doing better.

I didn't want her going back if she was just going to be disappointed. I didn't want it to set her back.

So I went for myself.

"It's not for everyone," Wada said, referring to Bella. "It's hard work."

I didn't like his tone. "She's not lazy," I said. "She _tried_."

He just looked at me, which just annoyed me even more.

"Doesn't it bother you? That all of this happened here? That this place was a part of it? This place is so beautiful. So serene. You meditate for peace. But you had murderers coming here every week."

"Zazen does not make a man good or bad. No more than Christianity or Islam."

 _Why bother then?_ I wondered. _What was the point of God—or gods or philosophy—if it didn't make moral?_

"If they were not coming here," he said, "if they were not meditating, think what bad things they would have done."

I stared at him.

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"What the fuck is this?" Bella snapped.

She was absolutely furious.

"It's a bonsai plant," I said.

"I know it's a fucking bonsai. Why the fuck did you think I'd want it?"

"I saw you looking at them the other day in the garden center—"

"So you want to tie the branches down?" she yelled. "That's what you're supposed to do with a bonsai, you know. You want to keep it from growing naturally? From doing whatever it _wants_? From what it's _supposed_ to do? You want to _control_ it?"

Now I was getting angry. "Do you see any string? I just thought we could let it grow. Do whatever it wanted."

"It's _alive_ , you know. It's a _living_ —" Bella broke off.

"You were just going to let it grow?" she asked, sounding much calmer.

"Not anymore! I'll give it to Nichols. Let his daughter have it. Christ—" I reached for the plant.

"No," Bella stopped me. "I don't want you to give it away."

"Could have fooled me." I was still angry. I had no idea what had set her off.

"I want to keep it," she said, a note of determination entering her voice. "I want to let it grow."

"You don't have to keep it just because it was a gift." I was calming down.

She smiled. "No, I _like_ it. I want it just _grow_."

Little incidents like this told me were evidence that there was just so much that I still didn't know about Bella. So many things that I didn't understand.

But then, I suppose she was kind of like one of those little puzzles. She was like a koan. She didn't make any sense at all. I would try to figure her out, working at the problem, only to stay in the dark.

Except maybe _that_ was the problem. Maybe I wasn't _supposed_ to be able to figure her out.

Like how you weren't supposed to be able to figure a koan out. You just had to—

Well, I wasn't really sure how those koans were supposed to work, but I knew that I didn't have to make sense of Bella to love her. I just did.

It broke my heart sometimes, to see the way she struggled.

It was like she _knew_ that she was a puzzle. Like she _knew_ that she didn't make sense.

She was trying to figure herself out as much as other people were trying to figure her out.

And it tore her apart, sometimes, trying to work the puzzle. It tore her apart because she thought that she was supposed to make sense.

But maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just her.

Maybe she was supposed to stay that way. _Free_.

No strings. No explanations. Nothing tying her down.

 _Wild_. Illogical.

And utterly herself.

THE END, REALLY

 **AN: Thanks for reading.**

 **No offense to fans of bonsai plants. This isn't a commentary on that at all. It's a commentary on what this Bella feels like people want to do to her—with her as the bonsai. Chapter 18 of** _ **Book of Monsters**_ **discusses why bonsais are a trigger for her.**

 **Of course, it's racist to appropriate the aspects (like the bonsai and the koan) of another people's culture as symbols meant to forward the personal growth of a person from the dominant group. I'm struggling with the tension between telling the truth (the bonsai episode is based on something from my own life—which I freely admit is problematic and possibly exploitative on my part) versus avoiding problematic usages of this kind of imagery. On the one hand, I want to talk about the ways in which multiculturalism enriches all of our lives. On the other hand, I'm struggling with how to do so in a way that isn't just more exploitative. This epilogue is by no means a solution. The main character recognizes the exploitative nature of her behavior towards the Zen Institute, but she's still mired in herself. The last chapter of** _ **Book of Monsters**_ **represents a more serious effort to confront these problems and their implications. If you didn't read** _ **Book of Monsters**_ **or gave up because it was too boring, you might consider reading the last chapter (Epilogue 2). It's fairly different from the rest of the story.**

 **Conclusion: I haven't figured out how to talk about these issues in my writing in a way that is entirely satisfactory. I'm working on it. And I hope that my efforts in this regard aren't too offensive.**


End file.
